


Let us Stray 'til Break of Day

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU from 2.04 onwards, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Comedy, Dancing, Derek is a creeper, Derek is emotionally stunted, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Lacrosse, M/M, Past Abuse, Romance, Roughhousing, Stiles and Scott are BFF, Stiles is snarky, This is basically Sabrina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek decides the best way to get Scott to join his pack is to seduce Stiles first. Derek makes terrible decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Props go to JenNova, who encouraged me a little too strongly to write this idea. The title comes from the song Moonlight Serenade. In many ways, this fic is essentially _Sabrina_ , although there are a fair few plot divergences. I owe my mind automatically slipping into _Sabrina_ mode to this wonderful _Merlin_ story --- [The Ugly Duckling Syndrome](http://archiveofourown.org/works/424496).

It's a plan that will have few casualties except, perhaps, his pride, but he can't care about the negative consequences when the positive ones beckon to him. It's simple. He needs Scott in his pack. Scott and Stiles are a packaged deal. The best way to get Scott is to get Stiles first. He's noticed how Stiles' heart-rate increases in his presence. It won't take much for him to seduce Stiles, secure Scott as a permanent member, then orchestrate a Stiles-lead break-up because it's obvious he's not boyfriend material. 

It isn't a noble plan, or a moral one. When Derek gives any time over to thinking about it, all he can think about are the parallels with Kate. 

Conveniently, he doesn't spare much time to thinking about anything at all. In war, there can be no time wasted. 

*

Scott's pretending to attempt to help Stiles train. Actually, he's focused more on his Allison situation and isn't even deigning Stiles with his usual advice of, "I don't know how I do it, I just do." But, still, they're sending balls flying through the air, and Stiles is trying to catch them without tumbling onto his ass, and it's probably the most 'normal' thing they've done in a long time, so Stiles isn't complaining. Only a little bit. Couched in humor. 

"Do you think I'll ever make first line?" he asks after one spectacular fall.

Scott helps him up. "Of course. I mean, you have already. You're just never here when you do."

"I'm invariably doing something to save your ass, no need to sound so accusatory."

"Not accusation. Fact."

"Masquerading as allegation," Stiles says, brandishing his stick like a weapon. 

Scott keeps side-eying his phone and it's about breaking Stiles' heart, so he begins to pack up his kit, only grumbling quietly as he does so. 

"You want me to drive you over to Allison's?"

Scott's face lights up like the fourth of July, and now Stiles has Katy Perry stuck pulsating in his brain. "You don't have to do that."

"I know, but do you want me to anyway?"

"You're the best of all best friends."

"You say that as if you've only just figured it out."

Scott decides he has to freshen up before meeting his lady-love, but Stiles is barely comfortable baring all when surrounded by the whole team, let alone just one other guy (and he does not mentally flash back to all those naked paddling pool days they share, no way in hell, because what on God's Green Earth were their parents thinking?), so he changes quickly in the locker room and plays Fruit Ninja. 

He doesn't know what it is that makes him look up. Maybe he sees something black and foreboding in his peripheral vision. Maybe there's a metallic scent in the air. Either way, he looks up, and there's Derek, the grade-A stalker that he is, staring at him. Intensely. Stiles can never control the way his heart skips a beat when he has Derek's whole attention. He's _tried_ , but nope, nuh-uh, not happening, not even the tiniest amount. His heart? Skipping away. Like a needle on a record, like a little girl with some delicious cotton candy. 

"Scott's in the shower. Which you must already know. So you're probably waiting. Ugh, the implications."

Derek's face doesn't even twitch. "I came to see you."

Stiles' mouth is frequently open, but rarely so out of his control. He's gaping and he can't stop. "Huh?"

Derek steps forward, somehow rigid and fluid at the same time. Stiles has an unfortunate mental picture of silly-putty. Black leather encased silly-putty. That settles next to Stiles on the bench. Stiles was fairly convinced he'd gotten over his Derek panic sometime between holding Derek up in a pool for two hours and, well, now. But apparently not. This is too bizarre and he is wigging out. 

"I have a proposition for you."

"If it involves any virgin sacrifice or ritual mutilation; first of all, how dare you, and second, I thank you kindly but no."

"I didn't originally plan for either of those things," Derek says, expression not changing, though he sounds world-weary. "But they can be arranged."

"Is this where I squeak for your edification?" Stiles asks, still slicing and dicing, because it's helping him release pent-up energy. "Because I'm not going to do that."

Derek reaches over, fingers trapping Stiles' as he takes his phone. Stiles does not squeak. It's more of a low-throated groan. Totally not the success he was hoping for. He cranes his head around, figuring Scott has to be coming out of the shower soon. It's been four whole minutes. And, yeah, maybe he's painfully acquainted with Scott's usual twenty-minute suds and scrub, but at school? They spend way too much time than is healthy in the showers and locker room as it is. Derek puts his phone on the bench. Stiles cradles his hands together, not wringing them exactly, more twiddling his thumbs. 

"My deal is this: I will train you in lacrosse if you teach me some of your internet and library research skills."

"What do you know about lacrosse?"

"A helluva lot more than you, judging by your performance today. Look me up in the yearbook and newspaper archives if you don't believe me."

Stiles licks against the roof of his mouth to try and dampen it. All that happens is the sensation of sandpaper against his palate. Derek concentrates on his lips and Stiles can feel heat rising up his chest and neck. He knows he's probably beginning to blush fire-truck red. "And why would you be suggesting an exchange instead of simply demanding my assistance?"

Derek's glare gets colder. How can it get _colder_? It was already icy. "If you feel like you owe me you'll do a better job of teaching me."

"What happens if I say no?"

Derek tilts his head to the side, his only other concession to displaying any kind of emotion. This seems like mild irritation mixed with curiosity to Stiles. It could also be a bad case of indigestion. "What do you think'll happen?" 

"You'll suck my spine out through my nose in ten seconds flat?"

"Colorful. But no. The worst that'll happen is you'll never make first line. And I will constantly come to you for information, at all hours of the day and night. And after I've tortured you that way for a year or more, I'll rip your throat out. By that stage, it'll be a mercy killing."

"Sure making voluntary Derek-time an attractive prospect," Stiles says, wondering if the roll of his eyes accurately conveys how eye-roll-worthy he finds Derek's schtick. That's better than wondering if he should take him up on his offer. 

"You have twenty-four hours to decide," Derek says, and then he's strolling away, hands tucked into his leather jacket. Strolling. If he added more hip action it'd be a swagger.

Stiles stares at the taut line of his back until it disappears around the corner; perplexed, bamboozled, topsy-turvy. There aren't enough flailing gestures and exclamations that could do his confusion justice. Just --- what? How? Why? Hweugh? 

Scott comes out of the shower five minutes later. Stiles has been staring at the wall, transfixed. He sniffs the air, frowns. 

"Why was Derek here?"

"I don't really know," Stiles replies. 

He's gotten good at lying to Scott using intensifiers and small omissions. He doesn't _really_ know why Derek was there, so he can say that easily without Scott's wolfy senses cluing into him kind of knowing. 

"Did he want to see me?"

"He bailed once you'd been in the shower for fifteen minutes, man."

Also not a lie. Stiles should probably feel bad at his lying-to-his-best-friend skills. They're edging close to his resignedly-accepting-he'll-get-pushed-aside-for-a-girlfriend skills. And his eating-two-bowls-of-lucky-charms-in-one-minute skills.

Scott looks put out and has his mouth open to speak more, but then his phone vibrates and his concentration is wholly absorbed by whatever cutesy message Allison is leaving him. Stiles heaves a mental sigh of relief. He can't say why he wants to keep this from Scott. The sensible thing would be to debate the merits and downfalls of accepting anything from the Tall, Dark and Brooding one. Except that he's positive Scott will immediately nix the idea and Stiles is leaning toward maybe possibly saying yeah. 

Stiles really, really wants to make first line. And if it also means the potential to learn more about a werewolf who's been half-wolf his entire life? And means he gets him out of his buzzcut in years to come because he can Google things properly for himself? The good of this deal really seems to outweigh the bad. 

He shakes himself out of his meandering thoughts and wraps his arm around Scott's shoulders. "C'mon lover boy, let's roll."

Scott is a comforting, solid presence against his side, nothing inconsistently harrowing or remotely worrying. Just good old Scott. 

"I had a thought, in the shower," Scott says. 

"I totally don't need to hear anymore about your sex fantasies, I'm scarred for life after the one where you were a literal dickhead. Thanks anyway."

"No, after them. About how we could train you up to make first line. Your main weakness is coordination, right? I have the perfect solution! Dance lessons. You should learn how to tango. Then, you'll get, like, nimble, and sure-footed, _and_ Lydia will notice you."

Stiles stares at Scott for a good three minutes before starting up his Jeep. Between the samba and Derek, Stiles thinks his decision has been made. 

*

He's been waiting for an excuse to do this. It's taken a lot of self-will not to scour the archives to find anything he could on Derek. Now, he's been given permission --- hey, invocation. He isn't wasting time. So, he searches. He searches and completely ignores the swing-beat echoing against his rib-cage. 

Derek was some kind of lacrosse God. It shouldn't really be a surprise, but it is. There are countless mentions of his prowess (actually, he counted, and there are seventeen in the yearbooks alone.) Derek's record makes Jackson's look like that of a toddler. Makes all of Scott's achievements pale. He did things with a stick that professionals wished they could do. It doesn't guarantee that he can show Stiles how to have even an eighth of his success, but he clearly knows what he's talking about. 

There's a solitary picture in the corner of one page. It's blurry and not only are his eyes scrunched shut, but Derek's facing off to the side. Stiles is willing to bet it's the only photograph of him the school ever managed to get. He's decked out in a white wife-beater and the red shorts Stiles knows so well. And he's --- scrawny. Like, thinner than Stiles. Negligible arm muscles. Knobbly knees. Stiles had seen mentions of "a build you wouldn't think would translate to dominance", but, really? It puts a whole new spin on things. Stiles wonders if Derek even _had_ any wolfy superpowers when he was scoring all those goals, which makes him boggle. What if they developed later and it was all latent talent? 

Stiles traces his finger over young-Derek's face. According to the caption he's just turned sixteen. His eyes are scrunched up because he's laughing so hard; carefree, full of life. And maybe he was always an asshole --- Jackson-lite --- arrogant and entitled. But Stiles doesn't think so. He closes the book, taps his fingers against the cover. He's made up his mind. 

*

At first, he was going to ask Erica to do the seducing. She seemed more appropriate for the task. He was convinced that whatever attraction Stiles held for him would be overshadowed by a pretty blonde. Then he discovered she'd always had a crush on Stiles and he realized the risk was too great. He couldn't let feelings get involved. Erica wouldn't know where to draw the line. She'd get caught up in the fantasy. He stepped up to the plate. 

He convinced himself he didn't have to like it for it to work. He didn't have to agree every step of the way. And he wasn't planning on breaking Stiles' heart, because even at his most charming there wasn't any way an intelligent person like Stiles could fall head over heels for him. He was too damaged. It would be a fling. A smile and a kiss and a "this won't work out". They'd part as amicably as they could ever get and Stiles would bounce away from the experience as resilient as always. Meanwhile, Scott would have seen the benefits of working with the pack so even though his best friend was no longer making eyes at his Alpha, he'd stay. 

When Stiles appears at the depot, all tentative twitching and large brown doe eyes, Derek has a moment where all he can think is 'no'. No. Maybe lacrosse and research are enough. Perhaps he doesn't need to take it any further than a smile and a "thanks for helping". But then, when Stiles says, "Derek, I'm gonna take you up on your offer. But you have to promise not to snap me in two", he remembers the times they've all saved one another's lives and still Scott won't join him, so maybe there's no other way.

"When do you want to start?" Derek asks, because he learned a long time ago not to make any promises. 

Stiles shrugs. "How about now? A quick drive to the library, a little search engine one-oh-one."

Derek narrows his eyes. "You'd teach me before I show you a thing?"

There's something careful in Stiles' expression, something guarded, something he doesn't want Derek to see. "Well, this way you'll owe me."


	2. Chapter 2

Derek's been in libraries before. Many times. From the way Stiles is babbling, it's obvious he's not taking any chances on that, and beyond wondering if Stiles has a mute button, Derek finds he's not immediately regretting this. It's not a lie that he could fine-tune his research skills. And Stiles knows all the short-cuts, doesn't need to ask any librarians for help. He says he's memorized the Dewey decimal system. Derek thinks it's meant to be a joke, but that doesn't stop it from being true. They're both living examples that the best lies are couched in reality. 

"So you should probably make yourself at home here, because when it comes to accessing both the books of your interest and the computers, this is the optimal cubicle," Stiles says, flourishing grandly. 

He sets his bag on the tabletop, affixes a note saying 'occupied'. Derek doesn't think that's the wisest action, but there are maybe five other people in the library if he's being generous, so he guesses Stiles has weighed up the risk involved.

"What if someone's already here?"

"One look at you and they'd run away for any number of reasons," Stiles says. 

He's not malicious about it. He's forthright. Derek's had ample opportunity to notice that even though Stiles is physically attracted to him, he hasn't got an inflated sense of Derek's worth. He hasn't put him on a pedestal, or made him a shrine. He mostly seems to think Derek's sex with menaces. That's going to have to change at least a little, Derek realizes. He's going to have to con Stiles into thinking he's somewhat likable. Because there's no doubt in his mind that if he simply made the moves this evening Stiles would shoot him down. He may be a horny teenager (Derek internally _winces_ at this thought; there's knowing and then there's _knowing_ ), but he's been laboring under a crush on an unattainable beauty for a long time now. An unattainable beauty that Stiles also called scarily smart and on the edge of unstable when they were treading water in the Beacon Hills High pool. Which gives Derek information that in this case is excellent ammunition. 

Stiles would need more than mere physical attraction to make him want anything from Derek. He'd have to connect with him. Showering him with attention would help, but it wouldn't be everything. It's a depressing thought, but Derek comes to the conclusion he'll have to develop some kind of personality in order for his plan to work. He can hardly remember who he used to be and the idea of creating a whole new persona from scratch is draining. And Stiles is no fool. He wouldn't buy a sudden transformation. He's seen them at least once a month since Scott was bitten. Knows they don't stay forever. So it's going to have to be a balancing act. He’s going to have to take his time, stretch this out longer than he’d prefer. He has advantages, but then, so does Stiles. 

"Did you want me to show you some particularly useful books first, or how to access the internet here?" Stiles asks, taking Derek's lack of response in his stride. He doesn't seem at all perturbed that Derek has taken a few moments to stare blankly at him. 

"Books," Derek replies, unable to come up with a creative response. "They're solid. Tangible. They have a scent and a texture."

"Old-school," Stiles says. "Figures. Follow me."

Derek follows, but he has to ask. "What do you mean --- figures?"

"That you'd be more likely to ask me to teach you how to dougie than to teach you how to google if you were technologically minded?"

Derek doesn't know what Stiles is talking about. He thinks this is the point. They come to a set of tall shelves and Derek's driven to question Stiles again. 

"We're not gonna use the catalog?"

"I'll show you that later. For now, we should go straight to the source. Most of what you'll need is in this section."

Derek scans the shelves. Many of the books look old and weathered, cracked down their spines if they're not leather-bound. There's golden lettering on many of the titles, covers fraying at the top and base. At least a couple of the books look familiar. He remembers the collection his family had had in their library when he was a kid; hundreds of tomes just like this, recounting histories and myths, stories and legends. He used to love reading them and most of what he knows are half-remembered facts from hours trawling through his family's archives. 

Stiles pulls out a large leather book and slaps it into Derek's chest. When he looks down he sees the title 'The History of Lycanthropy'. Another eight books follow, many thicker and heavier than the first. When Stiles is finished, he shoos Derek back toward the cubicle. Most of the books are werewolf related, although there are a couple that are more general. 

Derek sits on the edge of the table when Stiles sprawls on the chair and starts fanning the books out. 

"I don't need books about werewolves, Stiles."

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure you could do with some pointers. But, regardless, many of these say they're only about werewolves, when actually it's a whole bunch of myths tangled up together. You can learn a lot by discounting what you know to be false."

Stiles pulls a notebook and pen out of his bag and looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "If I were you, I'd pull up a chair. You're gonna get awfully uncomfortable after three hours of perching on plywood."

"Three hours? I don't have that time to waste."

"Why not? You got an appointment with your manicurist to paint your nails?"

Derek leans down, deep into Stiles' space and traces his jaw with two of his nails, reveling in the fluttering of his eyelashes and a muttered, "oh my God." It's part-seduction and all threat. He taps his nails twice on Stiles' pulse point, his throat constricting as he senses the rushing of all that warm, wet blood. 

"Were you under the delusion this was going to be a one-session thing, Stiles? A few hours of leafing through your favorites? I'm expecting so much more. And I'll give you more in return. You obviously need it."

As predicted, Stiles rears back and graces Derek with a filthy glare. The wrong kind of filthy. There is nothing like desire in his countenance. Yet there is in his scent, just under the surface of all the typical Stiles smells; sorrow and determination and pragmatism. Derek changes tactic, complying with Stiles' suggestion of getting a chair. It stops him from looming, but does mean he can press his leg up against Stiles’. There’s a moment where Stiles studies him, before going back to studying the books.

“Got any burning questions? Maybe even something you know the answer to, so I can show you how I’d go about researching and verifying.”

“Does anything happen to werewolves during lunar eclipses?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, looks surprised. “Great question. Okay, so the first thing I do is go to the index of each book and note down the page numbers related to the question, if any exist. Then I’ll skim-read each section, to refine the reading material down further.” 

Stiles continues to explain basic research processes; the kind Derek used for projects and essays in school. He’s painfully detailed in his explanation, once again obviously assuming that Derek has spent his whole life underneath a rock. Derek doesn’t know whether to be amused or bemused. He was expecting brilliance. He’s getting standard information. Stiles has started to launch into a spiel about the judicious use of a highlighter when he finally cuts him off.

"You do know I went to school? I got As."

Stiles scoffs. “ _You_ got As?”

“And Bs,” Derek concedes, though there were only two. He’s not going to allow Stiles’ summation of his lack of intellectual prowess rattle him. “One C, from Harris.”

"I knew he hated everyone!” Stiles says, punching the air with his free hand. “It couldn’t just be me.” He taps his pen against his lip and glances from Derek to the books. “If you don't need this why'd you ask?”

"I thought you had a system."

"I do. This is it."

Derek points at the books, then at Stiles. "This would take hours."

"Yes. Yes it does."

Derek narrows his eyes. "How do you have time?"

Stiles gives him a ‘duh’ expression; all open mouth and rolling eyes. He should really win awards for his abilities to patronize and condescend. 

“I make the time. I mean, who needs sleep? Not me. Are there any classes I can skip? Maybe just this once. And unlike yours, my beauty regimen is seriously diminished.”

“It shows,” Derek says, because, really, he’s going to have to snark back if he wants any kind of control over the conversation.

Stiles goes still, then raises his eyebrows, looking almost impressed.

“It’s all suddenly starting to make sense,” Derek continues, warming up to his theme. “No wonder you never make first line.”

“Do you mean that as a compliment or an insult? You know what, I don’t care. I’m taking it as a compliment.”

Derek’s lips involuntarily curl up at the corners. He glances at Stiles, assessing. He wonders what it is that makes him work so hard at a task that has such little reward, putting that duty before his own desires. How many times has he put his life on the line? How many sacrifices has he made? And what was it all for? Loyalty? Or guilt? 

“Can you show me how to search the catalog, before I die of boredom?” Derek asks, in place of all the questions skittering across his mind. 

Stiles throws his hands up in the air in mock-anger. Or perhaps it’s real anger. There are occasions Stiles’ emotions are so loud, it’s hard to tell if they’re part of an act --- that maybe people should be more worried when he’s silent and restrained. But there’s an edge of annoyance in the jut of his jaw, and there’s a lingering scent of frustration, so Derek thinks that maybe the act can also serve as a double bluff. Stiles actually goes so far as to tug on Derek’s sleeve to make him follow, commencing another endless stream of how-to and why. Derek lets the words wash over him, mindless to everything except the brush of Stiles’ fingers against his wrist.

*

Stiles collapses onto his bed and attempts to sleep the sleep of the triumphant. Unfortunately, his body and his brain have other ideas. His legs keep twitching and his thoughts keep racing, thinking about the fact he just spent his longest time ever with Derek in a non-life-threatening situation. Hours. Hours of them encountering nothing more evil than Mrs Carroll, and while he’s got a theory about her being a soul-sucking demon that preys on kids’ misery during finals, she didn’t viciously attack them today. 

And it turns out, when they’re not both under the hideous pressure of saving one another’s lives, spending time with Derek is not horrible. He actually has a sense of humor --- buried far, far beneath the surface --- but there. He listens and he seems to be almost appreciative, which is more than can be said for most people. After all, he insisted that he give Stiles some lacrosse tuition before Stiles conducted the internet portion of improving his research skills, necessitating it happening another day. Granted, he was yawning as he did so. But he didn’t snarl when Stiles gave him homework. 

( _”Look,” Stiles had said, “I want to be sure you have a right to be as disparaging and haughty as you’re being. Compile these quotes and I won’t insist on returning to my five hour workshop on using bibliographies. And if you get your pack to do this for you, I will know, so don’t.”_ )

And, okay, so Derek is still absolutely terrifying, but there’s a reality to him now that there never used to be. Before, when all this began, he was this hulking figure of doom and distrust, and over the last couple of months he’s developed into a hulking figure of doom, distrust, and dimension. It used to be next to impossible imagining him doing anything remotely regular, and now Stiles knows what he looks like when he’s tired. How he sounds when he’s fighting back a laugh. (At Stiles’ misfortune; almost getting eviscerated by a Mrs Carroll-directed glare, but still, a laugh.)

Stiles shifts from his stomach to his back and stares up at his ceiling. He had thought that it was likely Derek was only using him to spy on Scott, but he hadn’t asked after Scott once. Then again, he also claimed to know everything Stiles was teaching him, so Stiles isn’t discounting that it’s part of his motivation, otherwise there would be no point to the proceedings at all. What he really needs to decide is whether he’s offended by this or not. It might be best that he get closer to Derek, to see whether he’s trustworthy enough as an ally. He knows Scott needs more real training, from someone who has knowledge that doesn’t all come from theory as opposed to practice. Someone has to be proactive in this regard, and history dictates it won’t be Scott.

He rubs his fingers over his eyes and wills sleep to come. He’s supposed to be meeting Derek at the field at the crack of dawn and considering Derek didn’t even have the patience to learn the difference between searching for keywords and searching for authors, he doesn’t think he’d be all that forgiving of tardiness. As he pulls his hands away, one brushes down over his jaw and he tenses, remembering the drag of Derek’s nails over that very spot. He can’t stop his full-bodied shiver. So, okay, his own intentions aren’t entirely above-board and self-sacrificing. He’s allowing his physical fascination to cloud his judgement. He can’t exactly bring himself to care.


	3. Chapter 3

The air is crisp and smells of cut grass. It evokes memories he’d sooner forget. A time when he had moments of happiness, when he had no other purpose than to grow up and suffer the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Derek rolls his head from side to side, noting the stillness of the morning and the soft orange glow beginning to illuminate the world, until he hears Stiles trudging across the field. He moves like a herd of elephants, but with none of the majesty and grace. Stiles has pillow imprints all over his face and his eyelids are drooping. He looks sleep-worn and crumpled. Derek has the irritating urge to rattle him awake. At least, that’s why he thinks his hands rise involuntarily toward Stiles as he makes his way onto the field. 

“Oh, God. Now you’re imitating the undead?” Stiles asks, noticing the aborted movement before Derek can think of a way to cover it up. 

“At least I don’t look undead,” Derek replies. 

Stiles blinks at him, slowly. “That was a pathetic comeback. You really need to hone your bantering skills.”

Derek ducks closer at Stiles, menacing, but Stiles is either still three quarters asleep, or past finding that particular movement intimidating. Derek scowls, deep, before reminding himself that he’s supposed to be charming. 

Derek literally has no idea how to be charming. Not when Stiles is staring blearily at him, mouth slack, chest rising and falling softly with each indrawn breath. Stiles is wearing loose sweatpants and a looser shirt, seems to be under the impression he won’t need his actual lacrosse kit. No padding, no gloves, no helmet. What exactly does he think Derek’s planning on teaching him? Derek’s scowl dissipates into a light frown. 

“What are you having particular trouble with?” he asks, wanting to bring some focus to the morning’s proceedings. He can’t get caught up in the details when there’s a broader picture to take in.

Unlike Stiles’ teaching style of information overload, throw as much as you can at your student until something sticks, he’s going to narrow things down, work on a couple of skills at a time. Then, maybe, Stiles will actually improve. 

“Passing, catching, and picking up ground balls,” Stiles says. Derek opens his mouth to speak and then Stiles is continuing. “Running, jumping, shooting, dodging, managing to stay standing long enough to survey the field…” Stiles peters out, shrugging hopelessly. He’s surrounded in the stench of disappointment. 

Derek doesn’t believe that Stiles could be that useless. He obviously exercises, even if it’s against his will. He’s muscular where he needs to be --- deceptively so --- more than wiry, less than built. He’s robust and he’s fit and he may not have a natural affinity for the sport, but he must have some redeeming traits. According to the Little League trophies in his room he once had decent hand-eye coordination. Plus, he practices, doesn’t he? That’s what he and Scott were doing here on the weekend. Perhaps it’s a confidence thing. If he simply reminds Stiles of his strengths he’ll be able to build on them.

“Is there anything you _can_ do?” he asks, doing his best to sound less demanding and more curious.

“I give awesome rubdowns,” Stiles says, before he baulks, then blushes, right eye flickering as he stares off into the middle distance. “Pretend I never said that,” he insists next. 

Derek immediately rushes to comply. The last thing he wants is to imagine Stiles’ surprisingly strong-looking hands easing away tension and fatigue. That is a mental place he is staying far away from, for ever and a day.

“What have you been practicing with Scott?” he asks next, because he’s got a feeling Stiles will notice if he never mentions him. Stiles is doing his best impression of a goldfish, like he thinks Derek’s referring to the rubdowns again, so he clarifies, “Attack or defense?”

The relief is palpable. “Attack.”

“I guess the first thing I’ll tell you is that as attack you always have to be on the move. It’s constant. You’re trying to keep your defense’s attention on you, so that they don’t get into a position to join their team in blocking whoever has the ball. You act as a distraction and you also put yourself in place to further the game. When you have the ball, you need to run backwards and forwards, fake passes, vary your pace. It’s as much a mind game as it is a physical advantage. Just keep going.”

It’s the most he’s said at one time in the last three years, he’s sure of it. And it’s such simple advice, but that seems significant somehow. That Stiles is nodding and paying attention to these words that came far more easily than others ever do. Though Derek suspects Stiles is utterly oblivious to what’s going to come next. 

“You need to work on improving these aspects of your game,” he announces. 

“I can do that,” Stiles replies, but he’s still rubbing at his left eye. 

“In order for you to practice your movement, I’m going to imagine you have the ball and I’m going to chase you,” Derek says, enunciating slowly and clearly to get the point through to Stiles.

“You’re serious,” Stiles says on a groan. “When are you ever not serious? Great! Why did I agree to this again?”

“I honestly do not know.” Derek watches Stiles bends down to pick up his stick. He shakes his head. “Leave your stick alone and run.”

“Why am I not using my stick?”

“It’ll be more of a hindrance than a help for now. Get going.”

There’s a whine and then, “I don’t wanna.” Contrary to what he’s saying, Stiles has already begun to shuffle off, not picking his feet up enough, but managing more than a walk.

“Run or I’m eating your liver. I hear it’ll be good with a nice chianti and fava beans.”

Stiles spins to watch Derek as he travels backwards. “You’re not allowed to be funny and referential when you’re making me run around at stupid o’clock in the morning, Derek. Cut that shit out.” 

Derek ignores the strange, warm thing that explodes within him at Stiles calling him funny and gives him a three minute head start. It doesn’t appear to do much. He’s seen Stiles run faster to the school cafeteria. He maybe shouldn’t have seen that, but he was keeping an eye on Scott. Stiles doesn’t seem appropriately driven, given the context Derek has constructed. He also spends way too much time glancing over his shoulder and not looking where he’s going. At one point, his feet almost get tangled up together, but he recovers. A second later, Derek bounds after him. 

This is familiar in all the ways that ache. This is how he used to train, but back then it was in the woods. He’d get Laura and his cousin Gemma to come at him from two sides, so he’d have to be doubly evasive. Gemma was an ordinary human, but an extraordinary athlete. She was _quick_ and frequently, in the early days, had him eating dirt and bark on the forest floor. He was only just coming into his powers as an adolescent werewolf and any time he wanted to push beyond regular human endurance he had to shift. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that in order to play lacrosse he had to keep his speed and strength in check. His dad had said he’d have him pulled off the team if he saw even a hint he was transforming. Derek remembers what it was like to be turning fifteen and developing control; like he had the world in his palm, way too easy to crush. Lacrosse helped focus him and eventually gave him advantages his werewolf cousins hadn’t had. 

It’s unsettling, doing this with Stiles. Like he’s sharing a part of himself he locked away years ago and never muses on because it hurts too much. And Derek --- he doesn’t know why, but something within him _wants_ to share this. He didn’t realize it would feel like this again, after so long. He thought it would be easy. Nothing is easy with Stiles, though, he should remember that. There are always complications. Because Stiles is so loud, even when he’s quiet, and he’s also so very human --- the best and the worst of humanity in one neat, compact package. He’s a constant reminder of what Derek’s lost and can never recapture. 

Derek feints right as he runs left, capturing Stiles around the middle, tumbling them both to the ground. Stiles gives out a wheezed ‘oof’ sound and grizzles. 

“Ow… my everything. No warning?”

Derek looks down at Stiles’ face bracketed by his arms. There’s a line in his forehead indicating pain, and his eyes are a touch too bright; morning sun giving the illusion they’re honey more than sherry colored. He’s warm underneath Derek; warm and solid, and the material of his shirt is thin enough that it’s like they’re pressed skintight. Derek’s inner voice yells “no” at him again, just as when Stiles turned up at the warehouse. 

He should be wanting this, shouldn’t he? The way Stiles is licking his lips and glancing at his mouth? He should be celebrating how Stiles unconsciously pushes up against him, hips canting the barest amount, almost negligible, except that Derek has heightened senses. He should be congratulating himself on a soon to be successful plan. He’s really not. He eases off Stiles, ignores the steady thrum of his pulse as he holds out a hand to pull him back up. 

“You think your opponents are gonna warn you? Better yet, wear little bells to alert you to their presence at all times?”

“That’d be crazily useful.”

Derek resists the temptation to respond again. If he did, they could be here all day talking. He hates that he isn’t annoyed by the prospect. Stiles may not be easy, but there are aspects of him that are comfortable.

“This time,” he says, pointedly, “worry less about what I’m doing and more about what you’re doing to me. _You’re_ attack, remember. Employ psychological warfare. You also need to speed it up.”

Stiles looks about to retort, then clearly thinks better of it. He dashes off and this time Derek is pleased to note that he picks up the pace and doesn’t look back. Derek lets him run for a while to test his endurance and work out. He watches the lithe arch of Stiles’ body, his lean contours and long legs. He looks almost elegant, when he weaves to the right. It’s a pity he trips over his own feet, faceplanting in a wet stretch of grass. 

Derek sighs, goes over and hauls him up by his arms, careful to immediately let go. There’s a flush over Stiles’ cheekbones and he glances at the ground rather than at Derek’s face. Considering the fact Stiles could win awards for his ability to stare Derek down, this is disturbing. 

“I know, all right. You don’t have to tell me how much I suck,” Stiles says on a sigh. 

“You were doing well,” Derek says, and Stiles eyes snap up to glance, assessing. “Until you decided you needed more roughage in your diet.” 

Stiles rubs his hand over his head, biting his lower lip in a thoroughly distracting manner. “Scott thinks I should take dance lessons to improve my coordination,” he says, like it’s a joke. 

It makes a lot of sense and is also one of the ways Laura helped him. For years she also held it over his head as the ultimate in sisterly blackmail, but she did teach him how to tango, foxtrot and quickstep to help develop an economy of movement and lightness of step. Before the dance lessons his main failing was how he ran flat-footed. 

“Scott said that?” Derek clarifies. 

Stiles grins, broad and wide. “I know. Some days it takes a lot of effort not to just call him a dumb puppy and chuck him under the chin.”

“It’s a good idea. I agree with Scott. I can teach you some ballroom steps and it’ll help you with your poise, rhythm and balance.”

Stiles’ face goes deadly, quietly blank. It’s the human equivalent of an old-school computer blue screen of death. Derek wonders if he has a restart function. He prods at Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles rocks backwards with the movement, rigid and yet oh so simple to maneuver. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, attempting to cut through the fog of his expression. He succeeds, but Stiles starts to wince at him, all scrunched up nose and pulled down lips. No one else on earth could pull the expression he’s pulling. 

“I think I misheard you,” Stiles says, continuing to sound shell-shocked. 

“You didn’t. Now, if I were you, I’d start running. Right this second.”

Stiles doesn’t run and Derek tackles him to the ground, but in a way that minimizes the impact. It’s a ploy to shock him into action more than anything and he doesn’t stay pinning Stiles long, because that way madness lies. Stiles smells musky and sweet and his heart is beating out a swift, thundering cadence. Derek wonders if that’s due to their proximity, his shock at the tackle, or his shock at the idea of dancing. With him. It’s probably all three. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles grumbles when he gets up, this time of his own volition. “I’m running.”

Almost as if he wants to prove to Derek that ballroom dancing torture is not necessary, Stiles ups his game. But he still gets snarled up in himself on three separate occasions, isn’t wholly focused on the task. He’s quicker, sure, but he doesn’t dodge well enough. When they switch to have Stiles running toward him, Derek has him on the ground five more times, and each occasion Stiles is sweat-slick but dry-mouthed, if the smacking of his lips is anything to go by. Each time Derek presses him into the grass it gets harder to lift up and away again, but not because his muscles are sore. It’s because he’s been without touch for so long, has purposely avoided human contact, and experiencing it all in a rush like this is heady. 

Time passes and Derek gives more advice, some of which helps immeasurably and some of which gets summarily ignored. They take a break from running after an hour to practice passing. Stiles is not terrible. With a little more practice every day he could be brilliant. He has decent aim and the ability to catch. After Stiles has caught his breath, they try several runs holding sticks, and that causes them both a few injuries, though Derek’s heal immediately. 

“You need to bring your kit next time,” he says when he examines a scrape on Stiles’ forearm. It’s a large abrasion and Stiles flinches when he strokes his thumb over it. 

Derek places his hand on his shoulder and lessens the pain without a second thought, but Stiles goes wide-eyed and purse-lipped. 

“You don’t have to do that. I can take it. I have to learn, right? And it’s --- you know, I may be breakable, but it’s possible to fix stuff without werewolf mojo.” 

“I just figured you’d be sore enough already without needing that too. Anyway, it doesn’t last forever,” Derek says with a shrug. He wipes his hand down his shirt, trying to get the feel of Stiles’ sweat off his palm. He likes it a little too much. 

There’s an awkward pause and then Stiles is leaning forward to shove at his shoulder. “You really had me going, before, with the whole ‘I’ll teach you how to dance’ thing. But that was you trying to freak me out, wasn’t it?”

“No, Stiles, like you said earlier, I’m never not serious, even when I’m joking. I believe Scott has the right idea for once. All of the skills that come with dancing would benefit you. You _are_ actually fast, you’re learning how to attack, you have good aim. You fall over because you don’t think hard enough about what your feet are doing. If I teach you how to tango, that won’t be an issue anymore.”

If Derek teaches Stiles to tango, he’ll have him in his arms without needing to violently tackle him first. Which works in favor of his ‘seduce Stiles’ manifesto, but seriously impedes upon his ‘don’t let feelings get in the way’ terms and conditions.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Just to double check --- this isn’t psychological warfare?”

“If you want to stay on the bench forever, be my guest. It’s no skin off my nose if you never improve.”

“I’m not saying that!” Stiles exclaims. “It’s more that we had a deal and this feels like we’re changing the rules and regulations.”

“It’s a means to an end. I said I’d train you, not that I’d give you one lesson and then expect you to know everything there is to know. Training involves time, effort and practice. If that also includes doing something different to work on aspects of the game in which you’re failing, I don’t see the harm.”

Stiles holds his hands up in surrender. “All right. When are we doing this?”

“After you show me some of your google tricks.”

“I’m busy until Tuesday. Unless you wanna come over tomorrow afternoon for the intensive study session my dad insists I run, even in his absence. I mean, Scott will be there, obviously, but it might be a good thing for you both to have time to talk.”

Derek doesn’t understand why he’s hesitant to agree, considering this is his endgame. Scott learning to rely upon him is the entire point of his plan so the more they interact, the better it will be. But he’s reluctant. 

He can’t erase his grudging tone when he says, “That sounds like it would work.” He looks Stiles up and down and notes the weariness around his eyes. “I think we’re finished for today, don’t you?” 

“Oh, thank God. I was worried you were gonna suggest another sprinting session. Yeah, I’m done. Doneski. Finished.”

Derek walks over to the bleachers and retrieves the papers filled with quotes that Stiles demanded of him the day before. They had taken an hour to compile and Derek’s hand had cramped halfway down the second page, but he was damned if he was going to give Stiles the satisfaction of believing he was incapable of doing this kind of thing for himself. Stiles looks over them, raising his eyebrows a few times in surprise where he presumably sees that Derek hadn’t fallen for some of his tricks.

Derek knows there’s something wrong with how much he craves Stiles’ approval on this, but he can’t stop himself from asking how he did.

“Is my work to your satisfaction?” he asks with a teasing smirk, because he did everything required and some. 

“I’ll concede that you know your way around a book or several. I also like that you annotated some of the quotes with ‘this is wrong’ and ‘completely implausible’.”

“They were,” Derek interjects.

Stiles makes a weird, halting noise, more seal than human. “You know I deliberately chose them to, like, raise your ire?”

“Yeah, I gathered that. That was how you’d know if I did the work or if I decided on delegation.”

“I’m actually starting to believe you got As in school.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Stiles smiles, small and soft, and Derek’s throat clenches shut. This is not good. This is bad. 

“I need to get back home. I’m supposed to be having brunch with my dad,” Stiles says, further confirming the wrongness of this. “Thanks for today. You, uh, you’re really not the worst teacher in the world. You’re not the best, either. That was Miss Peterson in fourth grade, who was knock-out gorgeous and thought that every lesson had a mandate to include glitter. But you’re pretty okay.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, the words foreign and thick against his tongue. 

He watches Stiles gather up the small amount of gear he brought and stumble toward his Jeep. When he’s safely out of sight, Derek sits down on the bleachers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“Fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles loves Scott like a brother and that means that when he disagrees with him for any reason, he thinks he’s the _stupidest_. Despite how often Stiles is inclined to mock him, Scott’s not stupid, far from it. His grades have slipped because he hasn’t had the time and concentration to study and he doesn’t know what he’s doing as a werewolf because he’s stubborn and hormonal and preoccupied with his girlfriend. Because he has a girlfriend to be preoccupied with. Unlike Stiles. Scott’s more naïve than he is idiotic. Stiles would call him too trusting, except that Scott doesn’t always trust when he’s supposed to. Which swings Stiles around to thinking about how Scott’s the stupidest again, because he really thinks Scott needs to give Derek another chance. 

If he’d been asked a month ago if Scott should give Derek another chance, the answer would involve a lot of fake-laughter and witticisms and maybe even a snort or two. But these days it’s closer to, ‘yes.’ He doesn’t necessarily think Scott should trust Derek with everything in every way, but enough to listen to him once in a while. Stiles is pretty sure the major reason Scott hates Derek is because he took away his chance for a cure, and Stiles gets that, he does, he rejected the bite for so many reasons, but one of them was seeing how it had messed up Scott’s life. But then Stiles thinks about how Scott would have gotten cured, and sometimes, when he’s being generous, he thinks that this was partly why Derek stepped up first. He didn’t want Scott to become a killer. Having contributed to the killing, Stiles gets that too. 

Attempting to reason with Scott on that point is tricky, because as soon as Derek’s name is mentioned he reacts the same way Stiles always used to; with barely disguised disgust and rolling eyes. Which is not cool when Stiles is trying to tell him that Derek’s going to be turning up in approximately twenty minutes' time. And that it’s as much for Scott’s benefit as it is for anyone else’s. Stiles went through Derek’s notes on the quotes he got him to look up to check if there was anything he didn’t know --- if there were so-called ‘facts’ Stiles had been blindly accepting. And there were. There was a lot of stuff he had no clue about, regarding cycles, anatomy, control. All Derek has ever wanted was to mentor Scott, which is something he _needs_ , and Scott continues to refuse him. There are occasions Stiles just wants to shout at him to be rational for a change. 

Which would probably be fine, if Stiles could be rational himself. Because he knows he’s not, not entirely. His own judgment has been clouded by, well, Derek. Derek as he is away from monsters, Derek as Stiles suspects he used to be before the fire. The Derek who spent hours yesterday trying to teach him how to play lacrosse and did a decent job of it. The Derek that Stiles actually really likes. That guy, he’d be a valuable ally. Stiles only wishes he could prove that to Scott. 

“So, Scott, you know Derek…?” Stiles starts. 

Scott’s already scowling, which is an expression that always looks wrong on his face. Scott was made to always be happy, Stiles is sure of it. He’s about to continue, but then there’s a leg coming in through his open window, and, “he’s here!”

Scott stands up and holds himself tense, shoulders squared. Stiles thinks he might be growling. He taps with the back of his hand against his chest and makes soft, reassuring sounds. 

“I invited him,” Stiles says, when Derek is standing before them both, looking both disgruntled and something Stiles can’t place --- worried? Apologetic? It’s something Stiles has never seen before, a curve in his eyebrows, a tightness of his jaw. 

“Why?” Scott asks, sounding wounded.

“So we can braid our hair and gossip about the cute boys we like,” Derek says with a roll of his eyes and while it’s not helping, it makes Stiles want to smile. When they’re not around one another he forgets how much they were cut from the same sarcasm-laden cloth. 

“I offered to teach Derek how to turn on a computer and find his way onto the internet.” 

It isn’t technically a lie, but this time the omission must be loud and clear, because Scott steps forward, eyes not leaving Derek’s. 

“You threatened him. Stay away from my friends,” Scott says, still scowling. Stiles feels this weird surge of affection mixed with exasperation. He always makes a point of complaining when Scott goes all protective, but he secretly revels in it and counts on the fact that Scott will have his back when the time comes. It’s just --- this isn’t the time for it, there isn’t any need.

Derek now looks amused more than anything, the ghost of a shit-eating grin surfacing, and, seriously, Stiles thinks he wants to make everything ten times more fraught. He saunters forward, over to Stiles, places a hand on his forearm.

“Did I threaten you to invite me over, Stiles?” he asks, all confident and mock-seductive and the worst. 

Stiles, slowly, gently pulls his arm away, because he does not want Scott thinking what’s edging its way to being true. He doesn’t think Scott could handle the betrayal. 

“He didn’t, Scott,” he says. “I figured if I taught him how to research for himself there’d be fewer window-sneak creeping incidents. Which, dude, I told you Dad wouldn’t be home, you couldn’t use the door?” He nudges Derek with his shoulder, which only serves to remind him how sore he is all over and how immovable Derek is in every way. 

Scott narrows his eyes at them, obviously sensing that part of the story is missing. Stiles doesn’t exactly know why he doesn’t want to tell the truth, or why Derek has also kept close-lipped on the subject, but that’s obviously the way it’s going to be. 

“Speaking of research --- I don’t have all day,” Derek grunts out and Stiles can’t help but glare at him. Seriously? He’s a broken record. Stiles wants to rage at him that maybe if he took more time with everything, instead of rushing around like his tail’s on fire, he might not fuck up so much.

“Just for that, you can wait until I go get us all something to eat,” he says, bounding out the room as quickly as his aching legs will take him. 

It is by no means the smartest thing he’s ever done, but maybe it’s what the werewolves need, the space to duke it out between them. In the kitchen he listens for the tell-tale sounds of a tussle, but it’s eerily silent as he loads his arms with all the junk food he’s been stashing away from his dad. He and Scott can get through two and a half family-sized bags of Nacho Cheese Doritos in one sitting, so he gathers all four he had hidden and adds a can of Pringles to the collection. To balance out the salt, he amasses a couple of packets of chocolate chip cookies and a Twinkie each. By the time he makes it back upstairs his arms feel like they’re about to fall off. 

In his room there is a silent stand-off still going on. Scott’s continuing to glare at Derek and Derek’s now returning the look. Neither of them has moved. They look like they’ve had _words_. 

“You know, as totally flattering as it is having two super-strong and sexy werewolves squabbling over me like this, don’t you think you two should learn how to get along?” Stiles asks, trying to defuse the tension. 

This was not a good move. This was the worst of all moves. Derek jerks back like he was struck and stares open mouthed at him. 

“This was a bad idea,” he mumbles, heading for the window, and aw, hell, Stiles finds himself skidding into place before him, blocking off his exit. 

“No, Derek, stay,” he says, trying to make it sound less like a command given to a dog and more like an invocation. “Please. I want you to.”

“ _I’ll_ go!” Scott yells. 

“You can’t go either,” Stiles says, shaking his head so rapidly he thinks it’ll fall off. “You have another thirty pages to get through, Mister, and don’t even try to convince me you’ll do it at home, because I’ve known you since kindergarten, okay? Eat your chips and get back to studying.”

Stiles dumps the mountain of junk food on his bed next to where Scott had been lying on his front reading his chemistry textbook. He tosses one packet of Doritos to Scott and another to Derek. Derek looks down into his hands like he’s never touched cornchips before, and Stiles has a horrified moment to speculate whether that’s true. There is something so desperately sad about that, about the thought that Derek has been so sheltered, through his own volition, that he doesn’t even partake in crunchy, salty massively unhealthy cardboard-textured excuses for food. Stiles opens his own packet before he can ask the question and jams five chips into his mouth at once. He signals with his cheese-flavoring covered hand toward his laptop and watches as Derek sits down stiffly at his computer chair, clutching onto his Doritos like he doesn’t know whether to open and devour them or squirrel them away as some kind of weird hibernation treasure. He makes the same signal at Scott and the bed, then drags his spare chair forward and settles next to Derek. 

Scott stares at him like he’s crazy, as if he thinks there might be a switch he can flip to make Stiles act the way he’s supposed to, which in this case, is just as angry and unwelcoming toward Derek as it is possible to be. Stiles simply gestures again and gives a death-stare until Scott complies. 

The air is thick enough Stiles is fairly sure Scott and Derek could cut it with their claws. It almost feels like it’s pressing in on him so he distracts himself by turning on his laptop and smirking that his start-up sound is Admiral Ackbar saying “it’s a trap”. That’s just peachy.

By the time Stiles has confirmed Derek knows what a browser is and how to get to google --- which involved so much glaring, but at least now Derek’s eating his Doritos with grudging crunches that he thinks are meant to mask how much Derek wants to call him out on his assumptions --- Scott’s turned back to his book. Which is a comfort. Though Stiles is pretty positive Scott’s still using all his other wolfy superpowers to keep an eye on them. He wonders what his trepidation smells like and whether it’s overlaid with nervous lust. Because he’s also pretty positive his awkward fascination with Derek has become more awkward and more fascinated. 

Stiles talks to Derek about specific search terms and Boolean logic, pointing out that Boolean logic is on its way to disappearing, which he thinks is a shame. Ten minutes of Stiles delineating why it’s a shame go by. He explains about the scholar and book sections of google, but also how only using google as a search engine is limiting, because google ranks according to relevance as opposed to general content. He rambles on a bit about RSS feeds and the reliability of Wikipedia. And Derek sits, and listens, and doesn’t complain like he did in the Library. In fact, he asks Stiles if he has a pen and paper he can use and starts taking notes. He’s also disturbingly monosyllabic. It’s full Troglodyte-style communication. It’s hard to believe that this is the same person who was giving Stiles veritable essays in how to improve his game a mere day before. 

After an hour of almost intense silence save for Stiles trying to teach his butt off, Derek stands up and tucks his paper into his jacket, which he didn’t remove, because social niceties are beyond him. 

“Thanks,” he says. “This is fine.”

“I have more homework for you,” Stiles returns, chancing a glance at Scott and seeing that, yeah, that statement did gain his attention. 

His head is tilted toward them, though the rest of him hasn’t moved from his position on Stiles’ bed. Three Twinkie wrappers are lying discarded by his elbow and Stiles knows he sure as hell didn’t eat his.

Scott mouths “more?” at Stiles and, really, he’s about a second away from burying his head in his hands, wishing there was some sand around so he could really do the whole willful ignorance routine properly.

“Here, I wrote it down this time. Also, when are we doing the thing?” Stiles asks, pulling Derek slightly aside as he presses paper into his hand, even though he knows it won’t make the smallest bit of difference to Scott’s ability to listen in. Derek looks at him like he has no idea what Stiles is talking about, all flat eyebrows and pursed lips. “1, 2, 3, 4, cha cha cha?” 

Derek sighs, all world-weary and uptight. “I don’t think we will.”

“No way, you’re not doing that to me. I have accepted my fate and you must accept yours. You owe me. We’re coming over Tuesday afternoon.”

“We’re?” Derek asks, keeping his stare very firmly fixed on Stiles, though in his peripheral vision Stiles can see him twitch his hand in Scott’s direction. 

“Yeah. I mean, Scott can get his wolf on with Erica, Isaac and Boyd. Can’t you, buddy?”

Apparently, this is the last thing on Scott’s mind. “Why?”

It’s a good question. One that Stiles has about ten different answers for, many of which conflict. Things such as, “because I want you to learn how to be an actual werewolf” rank high alongside, “because I think I may need a chaperone, have you ever had Derek touching you, because I have, and I want it again and again and again.”

“You spend way too much time with Allison,” he says instead. 

In his moment of inattention, Derek is out the window. Stiles feels a pang of regret that he didn’t get to say goodbye, which is completely ridiculous, considering Derek definitely didn’t want to say goodbye to him. He stares for a while at the empty opening, wondering what this would have been like without Scott here. He feels like this was probably the safer option. 

“What the _hell_ , Stiles?” Scott asks, looking the most murderous he has since that time he tried to eat him. He sits up and leans, almost menacing. 

“I can’t teach you everything you need to know,” Stiles replies. “But maybe he can. You need to at least try. Again. For me.”

Scott opens his mouth, snaps it shut again. He takes a deep, deep breath then looks at Stiles as if seeing him for the first time. Stiles stretches, dives for the only intact packet of chocolate chip cookies. He stuffs two into his mouth at the same time, wishing he’d brought up some milk.

“Okay,” Scott says, carefully. 

“Okay?” Stiles asks around cookie crumbs. “Okay!”

Maybe Scott isn’t the stupidest after all. This is very encouraging.


	5. Chapter 5

He hasn’t been avoiding his betas so much as relaxing his training regimen and cautioning them to attempt to blend into society. The fact that it looks a lot like him avoiding his betas is coincidental. They’re here, now, though. Came straight after school. Boyd is lifting weights in the far corner of the depot, talking to Isaac. Erica has taken residence in the broken down train car closest to Derek.

It’s harder than he thought it would be, teaching Erica, Isaac and Boyd how to gain and maintain control. He chose all three of them because they’re survivors and strong-willed, and he knew he needed that in his pack. He sometimes thinks they’re all a little too strong-willed. Erica is not above rolling her eyes at him and telling him he’s being an idiot. In fact, she does it a lot. She has a nasty habit of making assumptions and acting on them. Isaac has been struggling with his new-found sense of power. He has mood swings and it can sometimes be difficult to judge whether he’s going to be talking to the overconfident Isaac or the meek one. Derek knows he hasn’t dealt with that well. Boyd doesn’t entirely trust him, though he’s obviously willing to back him up as long as he’s going to keep learning from him. 

He likes them. He cares about them. As more than just a source of power. But he doesn’t know how to share enough of himself that they’d feel the same way back. He’s never comfortable with them the way he is with Stiles and he knows that’s fucked up, that he has more of a connection with a human who used to make it a mission to hate him than he does with those with which he now shares blood ties. If there’s a way to change that, he’s ignorant of it. 

Then there’s Scott. Scott, who is as unlike Stiles as it is possible to be in so many ways. Unwilling to listen or learn. Scott, who rejects the very notion that they’re brothers now. Who doesn’t seem to get that his life would be nine times easier if he accepted that he’s supposed to be part of the pack. The worst thing is that Derek can’t even hate him, would go so far as to say he admires him, because, yes, he may be frustrating as hell, but his level of control is impressive. Scott could teach the others so much and he refuses point blank. 

_“I don’t like you, I don’t trust you, I will_ never _join you,”_ Scott had said. 

And Derek believes him, so he doesn’t know what he’s doing pacing around the depot waiting for Stiles and Scott to appear. He doesn’t like feeling indebted to anyone and he owes Stiles more than a dancing lesson. He wishes that was the only answer.

“You really need to calm down, before you wear a hole in the concrete,” Erica says, idly swinging her legs off the beaten down bench she’s reclining on. She’s placed her book on her chest and is gazing at him appreciatively. 

“I’m calm,” Derek replies.

“Even if I couldn’t hear the little hop skip of your heart, I’d be able to tell that’s a lie,” Erica counters with a sly smile. 

She’s the only one who knows about his plan regarding Stiles and in retrospect his biggest mistake was telling her. 

That was by no means his biggest mistake, but it’s comforting to think it was. 

“Your plan’s working, Derek,” Erica says, a teasing note to her voice that has shades of danger. “You should be proud of yourself.”

But no, his plan isn’t working, not at all --- and Derek can’t explain that, doesn’t even want to admit that to himself. 

“What plan?” Isaac asks. 

Derek heard him coming, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, because he wants Isaac’s confidence to be founded on knowledge that he has actual skills. Isaac is very skilled in creeping up on people. Derek likes to think he taught him well. 

“Derek has a way to get Scott to join the fold.”

“I still don’t really understand why we need him.”

“We don’t,” Erica says with a shrug. “We want him.” 

Derek tips his head back, stares at the ceiling. He does not want to be here for this conversation. 

“What’s the plan?” Boyd asks, leaning on the opposite side to Isaac. 

“That’s the beautiful thing,” Erica says, lowering her tone and volume until it sounds like she’s being confidential. Not even a warning glare in her direction can get her to stop. “Derek’s going to get to Scott through Stiles.” She smiles and Derek’s surprised at how disturbing he finds the sight of all her teeth. 

“So, what, threaten Stiles and Scott will do whatever you want to keep him safe?” Boyd interrogates. He’s carefully neutral and Derek can’t pick up on any emotion, so it’s possible he’s projecting the judgement. 

“No,” Erica cuts in before he can reply. “Not threaten. You’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later, Derek has successfully extricated himself from his betas and has decided to look through the ‘homework’ Stiles gave him. It’s similar to the book quotes assignment, but more like an Easter egg hunt. He smothers a laugh at, “find the website that uses the words ‘zip, zilch, zero’ to describe what occurs to werewolves during lunar eclipses.” He wants, again, to prove to Stiles that he’s more than capable of finding the answers to these questions and he doesn’t know why that is. 

He smells them before he hears them coming, the scent of musky teenaged boy intermingled with garlic. When he hears them what he mostly hears is Scott complaining. 

“I don’t know why you’re insisting on this, can’t you see it’ll only end badly? Has he hypnotized you? Brainwashed you? I know he has some kind of weird Alpha abilities regular werewolves don’t.”

If only.

“We’re doing this because it will be good for you,” Stiles is saying, in a tone of voice that suggests it’s not the first time. “Anyway, you’re the one who said I needed to learn how to dance. Derek’s gonna show me a couple of steps, that’s all.”

“Aren’t you even a little suspicious that he doesn’t have your best interests at heart?”

“Dude, I know he doesn’t. This isn’t about me,” Stiles says, curt. Derek’s throat constricts and he wishes he could stop listening, stop hearing the truth of it all. “This is about two people with different skill sets mutually using one another to get what they want.”

Scott’s silent at that and so is Derek, his heart-beat going so shallow he can’t hear it over his own irregular breathing. The harshness of Stiles’ voice slices through the nerves he refuses to acknowledge and he stands in readiness for their arrival. 

Scott hangs back, but Stiles steps into the depot with alacrity. He’s turned up with his full lacrosse kit, dumps it on the ground. Derek’s about to step forward and speak, but then Erica appears. 

“Oh, hey guys,” she says, mock-sweet. Derek stares at her but it isn’t any kind of deterrent. “Good to see you could make it. Stiles, Derek’s been waiting for you. Scott, _we’ve_ been waiting for you.” 

She wraps her arm around Scott’s and pulls him to the side, where Boyd and Isaac are standing. Boyd’s face is blank, but Isaac looks amused. Scott’s expression of bewilderment mirrors how Derek feels.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, because, really --- what is she doing?

“Boyd, Isaac and I decided we were going to go practice the moves you showed us. A little bit of play-fighting, a little bit of tag. We thought Scott could come along and see what it’s like. It’ll be fun!”

“I set a couple of traps up in the woods yesterday,” Isaac adds. “We’re going to test if we can dodge them. It’ll be great to have another pair of claws.”

“I don’t think that’s the greatest idea,” Scott says, reaching forward like he’s trying to grasp hold of Stiles. 

“It could be good for you, buddy,” Stiles says, before Derek can agree with Scott.

“Okay?” Scott says, though it sounds more like a question. He’s squinting at Stiles as if looking for something within him.

“Yes!” Erica says, bubblier than she’s been in a while. 

He sees what Erica and Stiles are trying to do. Maybe Scott will join the pack despite him, because he connects with the other betas. While he’s failed to win him over, will presumably always fail in that regard, other werewolves his age might not. Already, Scott has tried to save each of his betas in one way or another. He obviously cares about them on some level, even if it’s just basic compassion. Spending time with them, especially in training exercises, might help change his mind. All might not be lost.

Derek watches as Scott grudgingly walks off with the others, leaving Stiles standing in front of him, stiller than he’s ever been. It’s almost like time has paused. Having time alone with Stiles will give him the space he needs to finish this once and for all. It’s wrong that thinking this leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

*

Stiles is torn over why he encouraged Scott’s abandonment. On the one hand, Scott practicing with the betas is exactly what he wanted to happen. On the other hand, he didn’t particularly relish the thought of four pairs of eyes watching him as he made a fool of himself. On the third, mutant hand, he’s now _alone with Derek_. And Derek’s expression? Crazy impossible to read. He’s, like, sucking his cheeks in and staring intently, while blinking in a fashion that looks nervous and worried. Why on Earth would Derek be the nervous and worried one?

“Explain to me why you brought the padding,” Derek says with his head tilted to one side. 

“I figured you’d teach me the basic steps and after I did them a few times we’d see if it’s improved my balance,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“That’s not how this works. You really think ten short minutes of slow, slow, quick, quick, slow is gonna fix everything that’s wrong with your game-play?”

Stiles opens his mouth wide, indignant. He! How dare! The _insult_. “So, how long is this gonna take, then?”

“Months. But today? An hour, at least.”

It’s the calm way Derek says it that has Stiles crossing his arms against his chest and choosing not to argue the point. Okay, so this is what he’s gotten himself into and he really has no one else to blame. He might as well weather it and beat himself up later. 

Derek tells him and shows him the steps of ballroom tango, models the two most typical holds. He talks a lot about posture and gait, says that it’s different here than in Argentine tango, and honestly, Stiles didn’t even know there were different types of tango, so he’s more interested than he thought he’d be. Derek is verbose, again, not the caveman from Sunday afternoon. Stiles likes listening to his voice. It’s softer and higher than he ever thinks it should be, not quite the Batmanesque growl he sometimes imagines. And in conjunction with movement --- well.

Derek’s effortlessly graceful and Stiles is not above thinking of him as beautiful, because he is. He’s all broad shoulders and defined torso and perfect moving hips. Stiles finds it very hard to believe that anyone could look at him like this and not find it difficult to contain all their drool. It still breaks Stiles’ mind that Derek knows this at all, that he has a history that involves ballroom dancing. It is one of the most incongruous things he’d associate with Derek, behind, perhaps, Rodeo Clown and Children’s Entertainment Performer. He wants to ask so many questions about it, but instinct tells him it’s verboten and he’s been trusting his instincts lately. Possibly more than he should. 

“It’s your turn,” Derek says, casually, like he _isn’t_ reveling in the idea of Stiles’ utter and immense humiliation. The lying mcliarface. 

“You want me to imagine I’m holding someone and move around the room?”

“To practice the steps,” Derek affirms mildly. 

It’s one of the most insane things he’s said in a vaguely normal voice; no alpha growl, no barely concealed fury. A bubble of laughter is threatening to escape his throat, panic grating up his spine. He shouldn’t be pushing this, but he knows he’ll look a complete tool if he starts sashaying by himself. He has none of Derek’s grace and majesty. He already can’t remember the correct steps.

“I’ve been told it takes two to tango,” he points out. He mockingly extends his arms. “C’mere, big guy. Teach me how to dance the forbidden dance of love.”

If he makes this a humiliating experience for the both of them, Derek won’t have material to blackmail and mock him with for years to come. If he makes it a joke, the truth will be neatly obscured. The hesitation he expects in Derek does not come, though, as Derek swiftly strides toward him, getting all up in his space.

“That’s the lambada,” Derek corrects, with one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Okay, we’ll speed things along to this part.” 

“We were always going to end up like this?” He has to ask. He has to know. 

“Of course. I can only hope this is going to help with your abysmal posture,” Derek mutters, forcing Stiles’ legs apart by nudging with his right shoe, adjusting his stance. Stiles thinks about him doing it for other reasons and suppresses a shudder.

“Abysmal? Really?” he asks, needing to do something from turning to jelly. “You totally nailed the vocab section of the SAT, didn’t you? Man, next you’re gonna be telling me off for being loquacious.”

Derek puts a hand on his back; too warm and too tight. “I would, but I know it would be an inefficacious endeavor.”

“Oh my God, for someone who hardly ever speaks unless they have to, I am so impressed by your word porn.”

Stiles quickly realizes two things; one --- that he just said the words ‘porn’ and ‘impressed’ to Derek in the same sentence, and two --- he’s moved closer and closer as they’ve been talking. To the point where he can feel Derek’s hot breath against his cheek. This is precisely why he invited Scott along to act as a shield. A cockblocking shield. Too bad he also told Scott to go running off in the woods with Derek’s betas. 

“I’m gonna apologize for all the garlic they put in the lasagne today. Up close like this, it must be more like a stench than a barely noticeable odor.”

“I smelled it a mile away. Literally. Luckily for you, I like garlic,” Derek says, lifting Stiles’ arm up and tapping on the underside of his elbow as if to tell him to keep it there.

“Trying to distinguish yourself from your blood-sucking brethren I see. Must be nice that not all supernatural beings suffer from the same allergies.”

Derek clasps hold of his hand. “Real original, a vampire joke.”

“It was either that or referencing how large doses of garlic can be toxic for dogs, so, I think this is less insulting,” Stiles says, casting his gaze down to look at how little space there is between their bodies. 

His throat and mouth are desert dry, his palms and armpits too damp. He hates how his body is rebelling against him. He’s still sore from lacrosse practice on the weekend and the twinges and achiness are making this all the more real. He can’t pretend this is some kind of fucked up dream when he doubts he’d add in the detail about his left ribs feeling like someone stomped on them. 

“Clearly you’ve never met a vampire. I have and, frankly, the dog joke would’ve made me feel better about myself,” Derek says, all softly sardonic and sneakily witty. 

Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of Derek like this and feels the need to point it out, acknowledge that he knows Derek is made of more than glowering and awkwardly facing-off against Scott.

“Oh wow, that was a joke.”

“I never really joke, we’ve established that. But I am lying for comedic effect.” Derek shifts and presses his hand harder against Stiles’ back. It does terrible things to Stiles’ nervous system, makes him want to curl into himself to protect from arching back into the touch. “Stop rolling your shoulders forward, you look like a hunchback.”

“Out there, where they all live unaware, what I'd give, what I'd dare, just to live one day out there!” Stiles sings, grinning widely. Derek’s frown is horrified and confused and Stiles pushes back at him with the hand at his shoulder. Derek actually moves with the shove and there’s no doubt in Stiles’ mind that doing so was a conscious choice. “Oh, please, don’t tell me you’ve never watched that movie; Quasimodo is to you what Max Goof is to me.”

Derek stares at him, way too close, close enough that Stiles can see the different shades of green in his irises, the gold limning his pupil. He’s spellbound for a second. “I have no idea what you’re talking about half the time.”

“That means that half the time you do know what I’m talking about.”

“Unfortunately. You need to stop talking for ten minutes, do you think you can manage that?”

Stiles is more than capable, but he doesn’t want to, because he thinks he’s been doing a great job of diverting Derek’s attention from sensing anything about him. Like how he has butterflies crashing around in his abdomen. And very inappropriate thoughts sailing around his mind. 

“Why?” 

“I want you to concentrate on where you’re stepping and on maintaining this posture and that’s hard to do when you’re yammering on a mile a minute.”

“Dude, I’m the king of multi-tasking. I can conduct this conversation, dance, and think up new nicknames for you all at the same time. I’m thinking Derek the Menace doesn’t have the same zing as Dennis the Menace because it rhymes imperfectly, but if said quickly eno---”

Derek puts a hand over his mouth and glares. Stiles has no clue why his first thought is to lick his palm, he can’t go anywhere in this state, he is uncontrollable. When Derek slides his hand again to where it was resting on his back he’s silent, tongue-tied and a little hysterical. He, just --- this is all the bad things Stiles both craves and knows he needs to avoid, swaying in Derek’s arms like some lovelorn damsel. Well. He is in _considerable_ distress.

Stiles keeps telling himself to relax, but, then, Derek is rigid and uncompromising in front of him. There’s space, there, now, presumably for what Derek earlier called an open hold. He remembers what Derek said about maintaining his frame and thinks perhaps he’s supposed to be all stiff and formal at first too. He adjusts his stance slightly and tries to straighten up more, while still compressing his knees. Without the slouch he’s even closer to Derek in height and that’s a weird thought, that they’re almost eye-level, it kind of doesn’t seem right that he should be so equal in size to an Alpha werewolf. Then Stiles casts another glance over all of Derek’s muscles and reminds himself of their disparities. 

“That’s it,” Derek murmurs, and it sounds like he’s cooing at him. “For now, just follow my lead.” 

And they’re away, moving to an imaginary beat. A minute passes, more. Stiles looks down at his feet constantly, watching what Derek’s doing and trying to ensure he doesn’t step on his toes. It’s slow, slow, quick, quick, slow and trying to remember to lead with his heel. He’s thinking that if Derek didn’t have a grip on him he’d have tumbled over by now. He needs to remember that he’s the follow and therefore should be moving backwards, but he doesn’t always do it in time and they collide frequently. He knows he’s doing this all wrong, that he certainly shouldn’t be studying their steps like this, but when he looks up to wonder why Derek hasn’t told him off for not holding his head correctly, Derek’s eyes are closed tight and he’s breathing shallowly. His expression is all smoothed out, like he isn’t thinking, or angry, or concerned, and Stiles has never seen that before. 

“I think I’d find this easier with music,” Stiles says, softly, not really wanting to break Derek out of his reverie, but this is far too intimate. 

Derek’s eyes snap open and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d think there was a blush across his ridiculously sculpted cheekbones. He lets go of Stiles and nods, briskly. 

“Music,” he says, as if it never occurred to him before. But he’s moving toward a decades' old sound system that Stiles thinks still uses cassettes. Which. Derek is not that old and really needs to stop pretending he is. 

*

Stiles is practically vibrating in his arms and it’s getting increasingly hard not to respond to that. There’s a metallic and salty scent in the air masking the garlic that Derek wants to taste. He has to constantly remind himself he can’t until he’s sure he’ll be in control. Derek isn’t sure of anything. 

He wants to know what it is about Stiles that breaks him down like this, twists him up. He simultaneously wants to get as far away from Stiles as he can. Instead, he pulls him closer. 

The open hold they were maintaining half an hour before has closed. They’re pressed torso to torso and Derek’s heartbeat is matching Stiles’; rapid and rhythmic. Stiles has gotten hold of the basic steps, although he’s still clumsy with them, and will be for weeks, even with continued practice. He still occasionally lists to the side now that he’s stopped looking at his feet and Derek has to pull him upright. 

When Stiles gets it right is when he’s most dangerous, though. There are minutes there when he’s sinuous and controlled, frenetic energy thrumming against Derek’s skin like passion. The tango had never seemed very passionate --- he’d been taught by his sister, after all. He knew the reputation, but he didn’t understand it. Dancing had always been a means to an end and not something he necessarily loved. Admittedly, he enjoyed it more than he ever let on. With Stiles in his arms, he’s struggling to see how he could ever think of it the same again, the heat of Stiles soaking into his skin. It would be easy to forget that anything else existed. It’s visceral, vivid. When they move in sync, Derek can’t think straight, because he has never had anything like this before. 

“You can talk now,” he says, needing a distraction. 

“What use words when I have hip thrusts?” Stiles asks, surging forward to prove that he’s actually a demon in disguise. 

Derek refuses to tremble just because Stiles pushes all his lean, sinewy weight against him. There is something very like laughter in Stiles’ tone, but Derek doesn’t think that’s what the shakiness truly is at all. He can feel his pulse, his body using it as its metronome, he senses when it impossibly increases tempo.

“You do realize this isn’t a one-time thing and that you’re going to have to keep this up? A single lesson won’t give you the poise and balance you need to improve your lacrosse,” Derek admonishes, trying to grasp onto any scrap of sanity he has left.

“When you say ‘you’, you really mean ‘we’, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve done my part. You should be able to remember these steps by now.”

Stiles turns his head to look into his eyes. “Yeah, but how stupid will I look dancing with myself?”

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to look any stupider,” Derek says, because Stiles’ gaze is drawing him in and he needs to escape. 

As opposed to seeming insulted, though, Stiles looks amused, and Derek hates how much he wants to keep that expression on his face. It’s so much better than the dejected, life-weary Stiles he’s been seeing in recent months. The one he understands all too well, because it feels like an echo of everything he can’t let go of, for fear of the world spiraling out of his reach. 

Stiles’ lips are glistening, and so, so pink, parted distractingly. Since when did they get so full? His fingers have tightened against Derek’s, long and capable. He’s staring and his pupils are wider, almost eclipsing the warm brown Derek’s used to; mesmerizing. All Derek wants to do is drag a hand through the too short hair at the back of his head, tilt forward, and give and give and give.

He can’t. He won’t. Derek pulls away from Stiles, pacing the deep breath he needs to take. His chest is tight and painful, but not in any way that can quickly heal. He flourishes toward nothing in particular, realizes the music has stopped playing --- thinks it may have done so minutes before.

“Just keep everything I told you about tangoing in mind when playing lacrosse, practice the steps, and you should get better.”

Stiles rocks forward on the balls of his feet, hands tucked into his jean pockets. Derek has a horrified moment where he thinks the determination in Stiles’ eyes is going to end with him suddenly being pressed up against the wall by 150 pounds of gawky but alluring teenager. Thankfully, after narrowing his eyes, Stiles steps back and picks up his lacrosse stick. 

“Let’s see if it’s made any immediate change,” he says, and Derek doesn’t think he’s imagining the hint of acrimony in his tone. “I’d hate to think I’ve wasted your precious time, after all.”


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles is a mess of emotions, and just like his headphone cables, he’s impossible to untangle. He concentrates on school instead, giving it more focus than he’s felt inclined to in weeks. It’s a familiar routine of listen to the teacher, mentally mock the teacher, eat as much as humanly possible in the cafeteria, make notes, read boring text books, get vaguely interested by a passage in _The Taming of the Shrew_ , attempt to ignore Scott’s ever-present staring. 

Scott wants to ‘talk’. Stiles is putting a moratorium on words. He’s not overly successful, because he and words are in an abusive relationship --- they keep hurting him, he keeps going back to them because no other bond ever feels the same --- but he’s doing his level best. He’s shocked by how easy it is not to discuss, examine, inquire. He manages to go whole hours without saying more than “yes” or “no” and a memorable “sorry” to Lydia after he steps on her shoe. She ignores him anyway. 

This must be how Derek feels most of the time --- only ever having to deal with a syllable here or there.

No more thinking about Derek.

It both helps and hinders that he has lacrosse practice after school. Helps, because then he’s busy getting changed, concentrating on how he’s going to convince Finstock to let him play. Hinders, because Boyd and Isaac are in the locker room as well and they are only too happy to talk to Scott about the previous day. 

“You were awesome,” Isaac says, smiling in an easy way he never had before Derek bit him. Stiles notes that, quickly looks away. _No more thinking about Derek._ “How you side-stepped that trip wire and then deliberately triggered it to get Boyd?”

“I wanna be insulted, but I’m just impressed,” Boyd adds. 

Stiles tilts his head down toward his locker door and attempts to make himself invisible. He shrugs on his uniform, concentrates on attaching his padding. Any second now, he knows. Any moment. They will turn to him and they will want to know why they came back to stone cold silence. They’ll subtly twist the conversation to supposed dance lessons. Scott asked him questions the entire Jeep ride back to his place, not picking up on Stiles’ utter unwillingness to share. It’s the most attention he’s given him for months, which is darkly hilarious. 

Stiles can’t share because he hasn’t even sorted it out for himself. 

Sure enough, Scott turns to him as if he’s going to prod at him again, but then Boyd’s drawing Scott away. It’s an easy, unaffected movement; a hand on Scott’s elbow and a question about his hearing abilities asked in a soft, curious voice. Stiles stares at them as they walk toward the locker room door and is rewarded with a tip of Boyd’s head, so it wasn’t accidental. Stiles nods back. Huh. He’s spent a long time assuming Boyd hates him to teeny, tiny pieces, but that was the act of a man who knows when someone wants to be left alone. On second thoughts, yeah, it makes perfect sense that Boyd should realize that, even if it’s a surprise he could be so compassionate. 

Of course, Isaac is still there, staring at him. Stiles hasn’t found it in his heart to forgive Isaac completely for how he acted immediately after wolfdom, isn’t positive he’ll ever be able to. But he looks sympathetic at the moment as opposed to ‘you’d be delicious on rye’, so Stiles waits. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Isaac says. “None of us do. Except maybe Erica, she seems to know everything. But if you’re trying to help the pack, I support you.”

Stiles gives what he thinks approximates a smile. It could be a grimace. Stiles acknowledges Isaac’s words, at any rate. Isaac seems happy enough with the expression, takes it as a dismissal, because he follows Boyd and Scott out of the room. Stiles checks and rechecks his shoe laces, the fastenings for his padding, the mesh of his stick. Nothing appears to be loose.

After that, he wastes no time going and talking to Finstock. The quicker the less painful it will be, like ripping off a band aid, like pulling out a tooth, like coming up with another figurative analogy. 

“Uh, Coach?” He asks --- too tentative. He knows that won’t get Finstock’s attention. He’s busy shouting at Jackson. Stiles taps him on the arm. He might have done that a little too hard. “Coach, I’d really like to play today, not just watch everyone else practice. I wanna be out there, doing my thang.” 

He should not have added the head-wobble. Now he’s just embarrassing himself. It gains Finstock’s attention, though. 

“Sure thing, Stilinski,” he says without a second look. “As long as you do something for me.”

“Yeah! Anything. Well, not anything. Within reason. There has to be some kind of moral code in place. I wouldn’t want to do anything illegal.”

Stiles has done enough illegal things in his day. He doesn’t need to add to the list.

“Never, ever touch me again,” Finstock says, rounding on him. His face contorts into an exacerbated scowl. “You were always gonna play today. Five members of the team have come down with food poisoning. No one ever follows the prescribed diet. Why doesn’t anyone listen to the wisdoms of age? I’m putting you in as an attacker. Just don’t cause any injuries, okay? We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“I resent that,” Stiles says automatically. And the funny thing is, he really does. How’s he supposed to have confidence in himself if no one else does?

Still, this is good. This is great. He’s been working on offense and he knows he’s golden aim-wise, so basically all he has to do now is remember everything Derek’s taught him regarding movement and not faceplanting.

He really sucks at the ’don’t think about Derek’ game. 

He tells himself to concentrate, even uses the term ‘eyes on the prize’. Surely rhyming will get him through this. Stiles takes several deep breathes, rolls back his shoulders, gives himself a mental pep talk. He can do this. He can totally do this. He’s an excellent runner. He’s got speed. He has his own kind of style, and that has to count for something. He’s learning how to balance, how to maintain his poise. He thinks about how he needs to stand for the tango and shifts his weight and stance until he’s set up correctly. Who knows, maybe he could even use the principles of slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.

Stiles falls over almost the second he gets the ball. He _gets_ the ball, but the shuffle to the side he intended to do somehow gets turned into some kind of grapevine stepping thing and he’s over and out. To add further insult to the humiliation, Jackson’s the one who runs toward him and looms, scooping up the ball. 

“You snooze, you lose,” Jackson says with the kind of smooth mockery only someone with a PHd in douchebaggery can achieve. 

Stiles bashes his helmet again into the grass. Rhyming’s a traitorous bastard.

That’s all it takes for Stiles to give up. He doesn’t see the point. He hasn’t gotten good enough yet, it’s that simple. No matter how much he wants to speed things along, to improve overnight, it’s not going to happen. He watches the rest of the game and isn’t all that upset none of the acting midfielders pass him the ball. He wouldn’t either, in the same position. 

Stiles skilfully avoids Scott by forgoing a shower at school and driving straight home. He crashes onto his bed for ten minutes, but can’t stay still. He switches on his laptop, youtubes an appropriate track, stands up and practices the Goddamned tango. This isn’t the end, he tells himself, this is only the beginning.

*

He can’t lie to himself anymore. He wants to. He misses that ability. But he can’t.

He’s as bad as Kate. Stiles has fallen for the person Derek has been pretending to be and he’s going to get hurt. He’s already been hurt, if the disappointment Derek vividly remembers is any indication. There isn’t anything he can do to change that. The best thing he can do now is to leave Stiles alone. Whether or not Scott joins the pack, it’s irrelevant. Yes, he works well with the others, yes he would provide much needed power. No, it isn’t worth it in the end. 

The look in Stiles’ eyes --- Derek can’t get it out of his head. For a second, more, he wanted Derek. 

He wanted the illusion. It’s better to snatch it away now than let it linger. 

Derek goes for a drive to clear his head, tries to think of what he’ll say and do if Stiles approaches him again. Maybe he’s lucky and Stiles recognized his rejection. He really doesn’t think the stick ‘accident’ was all that accidental. Stiles is clumsy occasionally, but he has good control over those aspects of the game. And he didn’t talk to him, either. That’s a good sign. 

Derek actually wishes he had an immediate threat to worry about so he couldn’t afford to think about this. Something more threatening than the metaphorical chess game he’s playing against the Argents. There’s something lurking, he can sense it, a problem around the corner. It’s one of the reasons why he was so convinced he had to get Scott on his side. But it hasn’t made an appearance yet and the anticipation is gnawing at him. 

He isn’t aware he’s going in any particular direction until he begins to recognize the thinning out of the woods. He’s doubled back on himself at some point. Probably after he went to get gas. He figures it’s his subconscious attempting to punish him further for his transgressions. He’ll always end up back here. 

Derek drives down the overgrown lane, pulls up close to the house. He gets out and stares at the wrack and ruin caused by his mistakes. 

The journey back to the depot is short and easy to concentrate on. The trees whip by in a kaleidoscope of color and the road’s mesmeric. Plus, the speeding helps. It’s probably stupid, the last thing he wants is to be pulled over, but it helps. 

When he gets to the depot he discovers he’s not as alone as he’d like to be. It must be later than he thought. Erica and Boyd are working on some kind of mix of martial arts. Derek thinks anyone could be forgiven for thinking Boyd would be the one to win, given the advantage of his sheer size, but Erica is kicking his ass. She’s swift, well-coordinated. She’s noted Boyd’s weaknesses and she keeps attacking them. Even when Boyd attempts to pick her up, she wriggles free and delivers a crisp roundhouse to his face. Isaac is sitting cross-legged on the floor reading the same book Erica’s been reading in her spare time. When Derek looks at the title, he recognizes it as one of his family’s old books, a history of the area that briefly discusses the wolves that once lived there. He doesn’t know how accurate it is, but he’s read it several times himself. It’s a painless way he can connect with the past. 

“There you are, Papa Wolf,” Erica says, brushing her hands down her clothes in a movement that Derek suspects is supposed to be more seductive than practical.

“Don’t call me that.”

Erica smiles, sweetly, and nothing good ever comes of that. “Sorry. Would you prefer it if I called you Daddy instead?”

Derek’s not proud of himself for using his Alpha powers for something so small, but he does. He half-shifts, glares, doesn’t back down even when Erica whimpers. It’s cathartic and he needs to release his pent-up aggression.

“I’m going out,” he says. “When I come back, I want you all gone.”

“We can’t, we told Scott we’d meet him here,” Isaac says, wary in how he approaches Derek. 

“Meet him and then take him away with you,” he says, calm as he can manage. 

He turns his back on his betas and goes to the library. 

*

The week goes by relatively pain free. Scott, bless his little wolfy socks, decides he’ll respect Stiles’ wishes and ceases in his relentless press for answers. It’s a relief, because the more he had to think about how to avoid responding, the more he had to think about why. Scott’s also been hanging out with Erica, Isaac and Boyd, which is good, Stiles thinks. It sounds like, ego-wise, they’ve all pretty much returned to normal. Or at the very least, not psycho. Erica’s been giving Scott some tips about how to focus on hearing and scent at the same time. Though she has apparently been very handsy when doing so. In turn, Scott’s been explaining how he maintains control during the full moon. There’s one coming up, so that’s handy. Scott doesn’t bring up Derek and Stiles doesn’t ask.

Stiles hasn’t wanted to interfere with the werewolf bonding. That’s what he gives as his excuse. He’s been too busy working on his dance moves, anyway. That’s an excuse he keeps to himself. He’s cleared some floor space in his room, has downloaded several different tango tracks. He’s watched a few tutorial youtube videos, but they didn’t tell him anything much that he hasn’t already been told. He feels idiotic dancing around his room by himself, but he figures that’s better than dancing around solo in front of an audience. His dad has almost caught him once or twice, but thankfully seemed to take the presence of Stiles’ drawn blinds and flushed cheeks as him interrupting Stiles’ self-pleasuring time. That’s never not going to be awkward. For some reason, it’s still less awkward than him knowing Stiles was actually in the middle of --- firstly --- checking his posture in a mirror and ---secondly --- trying to do a turning corte.

On Saturday, Stiles goes to the lacrosse field and runs. He does a couple of sprints to warm up his body. Then he does a few different things, runs forwards and backwards, shuffles off to the side like a crab (and if he makes Three Stooges appropriated Zoidberg sounds when doing so, he’s the only one around to hear.) He concentrates hard on what his feet are doing, on being careful enough there’s nothing precarious in his balancing.

It… still doesn’t seem to be working, overly well. He’s doing his best, honestly he is, but he isn’t fluid, yet. He doesn’t have enough sense memory to successfully translate his dance practice into his lacrosse practice. He also thinks --- well, no, he knows --- that he needs to dance more with a partner. Which means he’s going to have to go search out Derek again. 

Stiles sits on the bleachers and lets himself remember being in Derek’s arms. It’s distracting. He still occasionally gets a tingle down his spine remembering the heat of Derek’s body against his, the sound of his low, steady breathing. He thinks about how Derek had looked at him. He wasn’t imagining the heat in that gaze. No one’s ever looked at him like that before. And maybe Derek was simply caught up in the intimacy of the dance, that makes sense based on how he reacted immediately after. But Stiles can’t forget it, or how much he’d wanted Derek to close the gap between them. He thinks he may have been unfair in his disappointment, but _no one had ever looked at him like that before_ , and the promise in it was enticing. 

He decides then and there to visit Derek in the afternoon. He’ll ask for the answers to his homework quiz, he’ll casually slip in an anecdote of his many failures on this very field, he’ll use his best version of puppy dog eyes to ask for more lacrosse tuition. It’ll be fine. He’ll approach it on purely platonic terms. And if he somehow ends the evening wrapped up in Derek’s arms, that’ll just be a bonus.


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn’t apologize, but after a week and a half he does stop pushing his betas away with growling and glares. It surprises him how much of a relief it is to have them around the depot again. He thinks he’s gotten used to the noise and the commotion of co-habitation. For the longest time it was only him and Laura, so he’d forgotten what it was like listening to other people’s conversation and not being required to respond. Laura was always trying to get him to respond. She never gave up. She’d still be trying today, if things were different. 

They talk mostly about completely trivial things; grades and school assignments and what a dick Harris can be. Nothing he could meaningfully contribute to even if they asked it of him. But that’s a comfort, because they care about it again. There was the risk, early on, in the first swell of ego, that they’d give up on education and he never wanted that. He didn’t get to finish High School so he’s reluctant to see the same happen to others. Especially these three, who are intelligent and intuitive in ways many teenagers aren’t. 

Erica doesn’t tease him as readily as she was doing so before and it’s strange to feel a combination of victorious and saddened over that. By the end of the week he teases her, instead, picks on her the way Laura used to pick on him --- gentle in his mockery, not quite brave enough to go full tilt into being an asshole. She could take it, she’d probably find it amusing, but it’s still new to him --- interacting more than ten minutes a day with someone who didn’t used to translate his toddler-speak for the adults, read him bedtime stories, go running with him in the woods. He doesn’t want to fuck it up again, even more than he’s sure he already has. Eventually, Erica starts to repay him with shrewd jabs and teasing smirks and he’s temporarily satisfied, until she starts asking him about Stiles. He doesn’t dignify her with answers to those questions. 

Stiles has been around the depot four times as far as Derek can tell. Twice, he heard and saw him, from his vantage point in the shadows. Stiles had called out for him to stop creeping and he’d wondered how he’d known until he’d realized he must have been guessing, using that line as a gambit every occasion. The other two times he’s divined Stiles’ presence by smell. Stiles has a very distinctive scent. At any one time he’s a combination of natural body odor and emotive projection --- sweetly musky and up to three different, often contrasting emotions. Frustration and worry linger in his wake. Derek feels weirdly sorry, but he isn’t going to apologize for this either. It’s… for the best. 

Scott sometimes arrives in Stiles’ Jeep. Derek always ensures he’s hiding when he hears him, just in case Stiles has come along too. It astonishes Derek that he hasn’t. It seems weird that he’d let the Jeep go without him. He can’t ask whether it took much convincing, or if it’s Scott’s choice or Stiles’ that Scott’s a lone wolf. Scott avoids him as much as possible, anyway, training with Erica, Isaac and Boyd. Derek watches them sometimes, sitting on the concrete with his back against the couch, observing Scott’s tactics. Scott’s particularly good at always facing whoever’s attacking him, even when it’s two at a time. He adapts moves that work on the lacrosse field to the context of a fight. He’s smart. Instinctive. The others are beginning to adopt his techniques and they’re getting better at anticipating where to go and how to do so, which is what Derek has spent months trying to teach them.

Derek feels a constant thrum of added power when Scott is at the depot. It's a familiar sensation, something he remembers from large family gatherings, but no less bizarre for it. And it aches. He wishes it didn’t, he thinks he should be stronger, but it’s a physical pain inside when Scott forgets to ignore him enough to glare in his direction. It aches for reasons other than an inevitable loss of power when Scott leaves. Because he knows the pack works better with Scott’s mentoring, that his betas are calmer and more in tune with both their human and wolf sides. He knows that Scott’s learning leadership skills and gaining confidence --- that he’s getting to experience the good of his new abilities. He knows that this is what he’s wanted from the beginning and that it has very little to do with a simple boost of adrenaline.

It’s hard to like someone who hates you, but Derek still likes Scott. That’s the worst part. He likes him, he knows the pack needs him, and though he keeps saying he’s given up on having Scott join the pack in a more permanent capacity, it isn’t true. 

Derek wants to fix things but he doesn’t really know where the break is and Scott’s not pointing it out. Isaac sometimes talks to Scott about him, vouching for his character, on absolutely no insistence on Derek’s part, but rather his own sense of loyalty. Derek hears them whispering and isn’t selective enough in filtering the discussion out. Scott always shoots Isaac down. When Derek attempts to talk to Scott for any purpose, he walks away. It makes Derek want to be reckless, makes him want to _push_. Instead, he retreats further. 

*

“Yeah, so, I’m guessing you’re still hiding from me. I don’t know why you’re hiding, but it’s kind of a dick move on your part,” Stiles yells as he walks through the depot. 

Stiles worries that he does know why Derek’s hiding. That Derek is backtracking because he let himself be swayed by the readily available heat of the body close to him, but really, the last thing he wants or needs is Stiles crushing on him up close. There’s no doubt in his mind that his attraction is obvious. Scott’s picked up on it, even if he’s refusing to talk about it, Stiles can tell by the hurried, worried looks he gets. And now, Stiles is going crazy stalker on Derek’s ass, so. He feels slightly better about that when he remembers that for a long time there being a creeper was basically Derek’s _raison d'être_. 

He doesn’t really blame Derek for avoiding him, all things considered. 

Except he does, because for the first time he can feel success within his grasp and he really wants to be able to grab hold and never let go. And if he could only talk to Derek --- or, like, manfully resist talking about it all in actual words and somehow communicate this in gestures instead --- he’d like to explain. That he isn’t expecting anything other than Derek imparting what Finstock calls “the wisdoms of age.” That he won’t let his attraction cloud his judgement. That the attraction itself is just a sign of a healthy developing sexuality. He appreciates Derek for more than his body. 

This is the last time he’s going to search Derek out with the purposes of an individual heart-to-heart, because he learned this lesson with Lydia. When you push hard enough, people step back quicker. He thinks he’s becoming emotionally mature with this realization. He thinks he’s the only one who’ll recognize that. He’s going to wallow in his own self-pride for a while. That’s a friendlier thought than being hurt over how Derek clearly gives less than a fuck about him. How he may even warrant negative fucks. Because, you know what? He and rejection are distant relatives. They see one another in any meaningful way only once a year, but bug the shit out of each other frequently over facebook, and this just so happens to be a family reunion. 

Stiles doesn’t like to dwell. He does dwell, usually late at night, and with extreme prejudice. But he does not gain any sick kind of satisfaction from it like he does a few other negative emotions he harbors. It isn’t oddly comforting like making fun of his appearance (because there has to be a reason people don’t like him, right? And God forbid it’s his sparkling personality.) Or self-flagellating and therefore cathartic like telling himself he’s the worst son in the world. It’s just draining. Stiles has all the energy ever, until he doesn’t, anymore. Until everything seems to flatten and go gray around the edges. 

“Okay, then, Derek,” he yells for a final time, walking back out into the sunshine. “I liked spending time with you, I thought you liked spending time with me. So I don’t know why we can’t be doing that. Spending time. Together. But if this is the way you want it to be, I can handle it.”

He can totally handle it. The great thing about having rejection as a third cousin twice removed is that he’s learned all the best ways to _punch it in the face_. Or avoid thinking about it. And while it’ll always be obnoxious as hell, he’s well acquainted with the obnoxiousness, which doesn’t lessen it so much as fortify him. So he’ll be fine, in the long run. In time, it could even become one of the anecdotes he’d tell to unsuspecting passers-by and several of his hundreds of cats. “There was a day a werewolf taught me to tango.”

*

Derek doesn’t miss Stiles. He doesn’t miss him and he _can’t_ miss him, because it’s impossible to miss something you never had. He doesn’t seek out any news he can when Isaac whines about school. He doesn’t play into Erica’s hands when she mentions how subdued Stiles has seemed lately. He doesn’t replay the hours they spent together, or the words Stiles said when he last turned up at the depot, or the way he very nearly stepped out of the shadows and answered him. 

Derek doesn’t do any of those things. 

He watches and trains his betas, he waits for whatever’s lurking around the corner to come crashing upon him, he reads, a lot, because it keeps him occupied. And he keeps going, because this is what Derek does. He doesn’t let a stupid thing like emotion weigh him down. He doesn’t _have_ any emotions where Stiles is concerned.

*

“Are you all right?” Scott asks for the fiftieth time that day. 

Stiles finishes typing the final six words of his English paper and rolls around from his position on the floor, bracing himself against Scott’s desk. He could look over his shoulder, but his back is sore, along with his legs, his arms, his head and his heart. He’s been running a lot, dancing alone a lot, and thinking way too much. 

“I’ve been concentrating,” he says, pitching his voice slightly lower to express his exasperation. 

“Yeah. Which is why I asked. Because you never concentrate on one thing at a time, you always do ten things at once and you just wrote a four page paper from start to finish without even getting up to make a drink.”

Stiles stretches his arms up and yawns. “I really wanted to finish writing about Katherina being a much more interesting character when she was a tempestuous firebrand. I may have likened her to a strawberry blonde goddess a couple of times.”

Scott’s face goes blank and he shuffles awkwardly on his bed, upending his text books. “Don’t tell me you’re regressing back to your crush on Lydia. You can’t do that to yourself, man, it’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“What? No. Of course not. _No_. That boat has well and truly sailed, that shoe has definitely dropped. But the comparisons were so obviously to be made, so I made them. In the spirit of English! Which is like saying ‘For Science!’, only less punchy, and actually I’m never saying that again.”

Scott looks dubious and Stiles does not know how to convince him otherwise. He doesn’t particularly care to. It might be easier if Scott believes his less than sunny mood and mentality is due to continued Lydia withdrawal. The part of him that is still genuinely hung up on Lydia thinks this is some kind of epic betrayal. The rest of him is happier to have an excuse he can quantify. 

“Okay…” Scott says, and the pause stretches longer than it should. “I’m supposed to be going running with Boyd soon, do you wanna join us?”

More running does not actually sound like a heart-cheering prospect, but Stiles’ natural curiosity regarding Scott’s training with the betas wins out, especially when combined with wanting to escape from his own mind for a while. He knows it’ll be a punishing pace and he wants that too. 

“Yeah, I’ll come, but you have to promise me you’ll defend me from any mockery Boyd may or may not choose to partake in.”

To be fair to Boyd, he hasn’t made a habit of mocking Stiles. He mostly looks at him contemplatively. In the five or so weeks Scott’s been hanging out with Boyd, Isaac and Erica, Stiles has only been involved outside of school twice. Both times he felt heavily scrutinized, and the kindest eyes were Boyd’s. He can be unpredictable, though, and Stiles knows he’ll never be able to seriously compete against wolfy super-speed. The opportunities for mockery are rife. 

And it’s obvious even Scott knows it when he responds with, “Boyd wouldn’t mock you. Much.”

They change into more appropriate running attire. Scott lets him borrow some sweatpants that are about an inch too short. Scott insists it’s barely noticeable, but Stiles constantly wants to tug the legs lower. Scott uses his most winsome smile to convince Stiles to drive him to the meeting spot and Stiles has an uncharitable moment wondering if that was the only reason Scott invited him along. Then he remembers that they’ve had a Jeep-sharing agreement for a while, and Scott always invites him along. He simply usually declines, for reasons he’s not going to go into with his inner voice again. It’s only going to be Boyd today, though, so he thinks he’ll be safe.

Which of course means he’s the opposite. Because who should be there, looking just as blindsided and frustrated as he is, but Derek. Derek, who has either spent the morning sucking on a lemon, or has suddenly smelled something rank. Derek, who makes his heart rate spike to ridiculous heights and can obviously tell as such. Stiles stares, can’t tear his eyes away. 

Boyd’s expression remains calm, but when he says, “Hi Scott. Hello Stiles, didn’t think we’d be seeing you today,” Stiles can hear an undercurrent of suspense and surprise underneath the words. 

“What are you doing here, Derek?” Scott asks, harsh in a way Stiles can’t bring himself to be. 

“I came to run,” Derek says with a shrug. “But I’m happy to go.”

Actually, he looks far from happy. Stiles can’t exactly remember a single moment when Derek has looked happy except in the one yearbook photograph he found and while he’s still struggling to contain his visceral reaction to Derek’s presence, thinking that automatically makes him feel sorry. It’s stupid, he’s been mentally cursing Derek for weeks now, thinking about him only in abstract terms of anger and pain and self-pity, but with him standing in front of him all Stiles can think about is what it would take to make Derek smile and mean it.

That whole ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ thing appears to be startlingly true. Maybe it’s all tied into a combination of his innate obsessive nature and self-esteem issues. He’s never more interested than when the object of his desire is disinterested. Uninterested? Absolutely without interest in all things Stiles. 

Though, actually, Derek is staring at him, his nostrils flaring. His eyes haven’t left Stiles’ face. They don’t even when Scott mumbles, “I don’t care what you do.” It’s unnerving and yet compelling. 

Stiles suddenly and almost uncontrollably wants to ask him all the questions he carefully stopped asking himself, like _‘why did you abandon me?’_ and _‘how was it that easy?’_

“Let’s go,” Boyd says, effortlessly calm as always. Stiles wants to know if it’s an act or if he really cares that little. 

About five minutes into the run, Stiles has realized three things. One --- that Scott has reduced his pace so he can keep alongside Stiles, which is the sweetest thing ever, but kind of defeats the object of training. Two --- that Boyd has done the same. And three --- that Derek keeps looking back at them with a frown that borders on a scowl. Derek is still in sight and so he must have decelerated too. To be honest, Stiles hasn’t been running as fast as he can. He figured he’d go slow and steady, not to win the race, but to make sure he didn’t fall over more than strictly necessary. There are deftly concealed tree roots and slippery, slimy leaves in his path, he just knows it. 

After another ten minutes, Stiles bends over, gasping. It’s mostly a fake-out and he thinks they’d all know that, if he hadn’t purposely pushed himself in the last two minutes, just to get his blood pumping quicker through his veins. His shirt has plastered itself to his back and Scott’s sweats have ridden up so there are now two inches showing at his ankles. He’s brushed his hand through his hair enough times he knows it’s spiked up around his head like he’s a pin cushion. He thinks he probably looks disgusting. Derek’s staring at him like he is.

“Run on without me,” Stiles says on an exhale. “Better yet, do a couple of laps. I’ll be here, watching, waiting.”

“If you’re sure?” Scott says, sounding dubious.

“Dude, please. I need to catch my breath,” Stiles replies. 

He pushes against the nearest tree and lets himself sink down. He watches the wolves as they go running off again, and yeah, they’re not even trying to hide the fact they’re now going super-speed. Scott’s form is about nine times better than it was last time Stiles trained with him. Which was a couple of months ago now that he thinks about it. He’s really been lackadaisical in his best friend duties. Stiles can’t be sure, because he doesn’t have his stopwatch, nor a stretch of distance, nor any times to compare it to, but Scott seems quicker. There’s a smoothness to his movements, a raw power that Stiles hasn’t seen since Scott was first bitten. But there’s more discipline, too. He looks like he’s been doing this for years, each time he runs past. Looks like he was born with such skill. Stiles would be envious if he didn’t know it all came with a price, and actually he’s proud. 

He does his best to ignore Derek. It isn’t the easiest thing he’s ever done. It’s aided by Derek now emphatically ignoring him.

After the fourth lap, Stiles joins in again. The shirt is partially dry and he’s tired of being a spectator. He’s learned what he wanted to know. It feels good to have the crunch of earth beneath his sneakers and the burn of air through his lungs. The wolves overtake him and Stiles watches the taut line of their backs. Scott only realizes his mistake when he’s five yards ahead. 

“Sorry,” he says, jogging to Stiles’ side again, barely huffing. “Didn’t see that you’d jumped back in.”

“No sweat. Well, actually, tons of sweat. Way too much sweat for one teenager to handle. Ugh, am I covered in man-funk. But you know what I mean.”

Scott rough-houses him, giving him a world-class noogie, and Stiles grins, because they haven’t had an opportunity to be this in a while and he sometimes forgets what it’s like, the easy friendship they used to have, before the responsibility and the guilt. He tackles Scott back and they end up tumbling to the ground for a moment, twisting and entangling until Stiles springs up and holds out his hand for Scott to take. Scott doesn’t need his hand, though, and also doesn’t look inclined to take it, tipping his head back to stare up at the sky, a small relaxed grin on his face.

Boyd and Derek arrive beside them, neither one of them looking as exhausted as Stiles wishes they were. 

“Giving up, Scott? How like you,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t help but gape at him a little. 

Scott reacts predictably, the way Stiles absolutely would do too, if he hadn’t caught a flash of something in Derek’s eyes that makes him wonder what the motivation behind the comment could be. Because there was deliberate antagonism there, but Stiles doesn’t think Derek even knew why. He looks just as shocked he said it as they all are. And yes, that includes Boyd, whose veneer of composure has cracked just enough to let a confused pout show through. 

“Fuck off, Derek. I’d rather give up than become a hollowed out shell of a person like you,” Scott growls as he jumps up, moving away from Stiles to shove at Derek’s shoulders. He doesn’t continue the fight, though, mostly because Derek snarls and then takes off into the woods. 

Stiles has the stupidest urge to defend Derek to Scott, to placate and say “he didn’t mean it.” And that’s the thing. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows, but he’s pretty sure it’s true.

*

He smells Stiles before he hears him. Stiles’ scent is no longer masked by Scott’s, despite the sweatpants that Derek quickly realized didn’t belong to Stiles. No, the scent is now almost entirely natural Stiles-tinged body odor and emotive projection. The emotion is difficult to discern.

Derek cracks his neck to the side and flexes his fingers, gearing himself up for an argument. He deserves it, he thinks. Probably more than. 

“So, that was rough,” Stiles says. 

“Right. Here to rip me further to shreds with your acerbic wit?”

“Here to give you some advice. It isn’t easy to believe you have the most noble of intentions when you never tell anyone a thing about yourself. I don’t think you mean Scott harm. I think you had reasons for biting Erica, Isaac and Boyd. But I have no clue why you don’t or why you did. I don’t get why you want Scott in your pack so much when he must be frustrating at best, actively hostile at worst. Hell, I don’t even know how you know how to dance. My knowledge of you is slim considering how many hours we’ve spent in each other’s company, oftentimes saving one another’s lives. I think if you opened up on occasion --- about anything ever --- your life would be smoother.”

Derek keeps his back to Stiles, though the urge to turn around is desperate.

“Scott won’t listen to me.”

“No, you’re probably right. But I will.”

It’s as far from a lie as it’s possible to get. Stiles will listen. He’ll listen for any number of reasons, but paramount being the fact that’s just what he does. Stiles listens, and looks, and learns. Stiles always wants to know more, has to know more. He questions because it’s second nature, an ingrained part of him, an irrepressible curiosity. 

Derek wants to tell him. Just as when they were playing lacrosse, Derek finds he wants to share this with Stiles. It’s a side of him warring incessantly with the one telling him to stay the hell away.

“Laura taught me to dance,” Derek says slowly. “Same reason I was teaching you. And it’s not that I want Scott in the pack. I need him. He belongs. His power and mine are linked and when we work together we’re stronger.” Derek finally turns around to see Stiles staring at him wide-eyed. “Will you leave me alone now?”

He won’t. It’s obvious in the jut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. 

“If I try to convince Scott. I mean, I can’t make any promises. But if I use all of my Stilesian wiles to make him see that he doesn’t have to love you to ally himself to you --- will you help me more with lacrosse training? Even if that also includes tangoing? I kinda thought that’s what you said you’d do, but you’ve been sort of… absent.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to win something. I won’t win Lydia --- she isn’t a prize to be won. I won’t win in any physical fights, not without some minor miracle. I frequently don’t win against my ADD, or in not disappointing my dad. But winning the chance to play lacrosse based on my own merits? That’s within my reach… if I improve. And for that, I need you.”

He should say no, use the word ‘scram’. Scram is always effective. He doesn’t do that and he wants to wonder why, but he knows. For all their differences, for all the distance between them, they see the world the same --- as a conquest they are unwilling to lose. No matter how bad it gets they’ll keep fighting, because that’s all they have left. It’s survival at its barest. And Derek would like to fool himself into thinking the stakes aren’t as high for Stiles, that his problems are trivial, but he isn’t that easy to fool. Lacrosse is a stand-in for the myriad accumulating obstacles in his life that Stiles can’t control. 

It’s all about control, in the end, which is why he’ll help and how he’ll be able to. Above all else, it’s Derek’s greatest strength. 

Because maybe he has emotions where Stiles is concerned--- the type he thought had been burned out of him long ago. And maybe he’s terrified Stiles’ attraction to the person he’ll never be will hurt him irreparably. But he has to have _something_. This one victory. 

He doesn’t even know what he wants to be the victor of, but when he says, “okay” and sees a look close to elation on Stiles’ face, he thinks it might be for a prize that can’t truly be won.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’ve been practicing,” Derek says, staring at Stiles with a completely unreadable expression. Stiles has gotten better at figuring out the nuances of Derek’s face, but he’s at a loss here. It’s hard to tell what the curve of his lips means, why his eyebrows are so flat, especially when Stiles can’t examine it all in concert --- they’re standing so close to one another.

He can’t remember which of them decided on dancing before lacrosse. It might have been him. It was probably him. They’re here, now, in Stiles’ room. His dad’s on shift for another six hours and it’s early evening so the light’s faded enough that it’s dimmer than usual, not dark enough to turn on the light. Music’s playing softly from his laptop speakers, loud enough Stiles can hear the beat, but easy to talk over. It feels like they’re totally separate from the world, but in a cozy way as opposed a cloying one. Stiles can almost convince himself they’ve been doing this all along.

“Of course I’ve been practicing,” Stiles says. “I think you unfairly doubt my commitment to sparkle motion.”

“I don’t even---” Derek begins, before clamping his mouth shut. When he speaks again, he’s changed tack. “Who have you been dancing with?”

“Well, there was nothing to lose, and there was nothing to prove, so I was…” Stiles says, leaving a blank for Derek to fill in. He knows he’s being a dick, but teasing Derek about living in the dark ages when it comes to knowledge of all music, film and tv is a twisted kind of fun.

“Oh, right,” Derek replies. There’s a narrowing of his eyes; something calculated and crafty. “On the floor of Tokyo, or down in London town?” 

So. Huh. A reference he’s finally gotten. Of course it’d be for a Billy Idol song from before they were both born. 

“If I had the chance I’d be asking the world to dance,” Stiles continues, smirking, because even when Derek gets it, it’s still fun. It might even be more fun. 

Chatting has enabled Stiles to ignore how warm he feels with Derek’s hands on him, or how his body’s reacting to the situation. He’s making a valiant attempt at forgetting he has any urges Derek-wise. Consciously, he’s succeeding admirably. Unconsciously, his lower back’s sticky and his abs are tense. His heart keeps doing that insanely loudly pounding thing that Stiles thinks Derek could hear even if he weren’t possessed of special powers. Stiles could lose himself in Derek’s body so close to his; the firm, solid weight of him, all that attention focused on how they move together. 

“Am I noticeably better, then?” Stiles asks when Derek doesn’t come back with a rejoinder.

“Yeah.” Derek, the asshole, sounds surprised. “You’re doing okay with the hold, your footwork is bordering on good. But your posture remains appalling.”

“Look, if you had to haul around a backpack filled with books every day, you’d walk like Cro-Magnon man too. Especially since you’ve got the brow for it.”

“You’re getting Cro-Magnons mixed up with Neanderthals, and no-one’s brow changes the way they walk,” Derek says smoothly, gliding Stiles to the side to avoid his computer desk. 

Stiles snorts, unable to stop a smile from sliding across his face. “You do realize what you just implied?”

“You were implying. I was correcting the implication. You need to be more careful with your analogies.”

“You know, for someone who clearly does have a brain, you’ve made some of the worst decisions known to man,” Stiles says before he can turn his brain-to-mouth filter on. 

Derek tilts his head, contemplative, tightens his hand in Stiles’, but not to the point of pain. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, book smarts don’t always translate to common sense.”

It’s obvious Derek’s revealed something he didn’t mean to when he doesn’t respond to Stiles for the next ten minutes beyond short, snappy commands. Move here, straighten up, don’t think so hard, now think a little more. It’s exhausting trying to keep up, and that’s just mentally. Physically, his feet are already aching. But he can tell that he really has improved. He doesn’t step on Derek once. He doesn’t slip to the side. He follows Derek’s movements fairly smoothly, certainly doesn’t forget which foot is supposed to go where.

He really never thought he’d be able to do this. He’s always had trouble with various different sequenced activities. When he was five he still had Velcro shoes when everyone else had shoelaces, because he could never remember when the damn bunny went in the hole. It took him two months to learn his cellphone number. He’ll use a recipe even if he’s made something several times before, just to be positive he’s doing it right. Playing video games has helped inestimably with his recall in following multiple part instructions, but with things like this it never comes easily to him. If there are too many variables he gets distracted, even with his medication. He feels a measure of self-satisfaction that he’s managed to get to the point it doesn’t take a great deal of effort to remember what to do, that it’s now coming automatically.

“You must have been working hard,” Derek says eventually, drawing away from Stiles. In his eyes there’s a hint of pride and he has a flush over his cheekbones that Stiles wants to stroke his fingers against. It’s likely from the heat of the room, but that doesn’t make it any less compelling. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I meant it, about wanting to win this, even though it’s only a chance and doesn’t mean I’ll be the star of any games or anything.”

“It’s as much about status as it is about conquest.”

There’s something to be said there, about how shocked he is that Derek gets it, but he isn’t shocked, not really. The more time they spend together, the more he realizes that this is something they share. Becoming the Alpha? He’d be a fool not think that the illusion of status was involved there somehow. It’s increasingly obvious that Derek doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Stiles wonders if he even always understands why he does what he does. It’s about the prospect of power as opposed to the actual thing. Most ambitious people know the reasons they harbor for attempted domination. They have plans and schemes and goals. If Derek has any kind of long-term plan, scheme or goal, it’s skilfully buried. But the pretense of being ruler over your dominion --- a title lacking in any meaningful responsibility --- most everyone wants a piece of that. Stiles knows himself well enough that this is what lacrosse means to him. He questions whether Derek’s that self-aware. He’s starting to think he might be; more than he’d have credited him with being if asked a couple months ago.

Stiles drags his hands down his sides, offers Derek his chair. Derek glances at it for a moment as if thinking it’s going to leap up and attack him, then sits, awkwardly, knees spread wide. 

“Do you want a drink? I could do with a drink. It’s always important to maintain adequate hydration.”

In the kitchen, Stiles makes judicious use of an ice cube across his forehead and the back of his neck. He hates his body’s insistent response to Derek. It isn’t fair on either of them. He had hoped that the erosion of Derek’s mystery would make him less appealing, but the opposite has occurred. He’s harder to resist when Stiles is aware of his layers. Stiles has the capacity to ignore and diminish it, this unwanted attraction. He’s perfectly capable of conversing normally with both Lydia and Danny, despite long-held crushes. His brotherly affection for Scott has long-overlain his formative hormone-riddled appreciation of his looks. Stiles isn’t so influenced by his dick that he’s incapable of responding to Derek except at a primal, physiological level. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still responding to Derek on a primal, physiological level, because all of his senses conspire against him, every single one. 

It occurs to him he didn’t ask what Derek wanted to drink before he ran out of his room, so he pours a glass each of water and coke, thinking whatever Derek didn’t want, he could have. 

In his room, the window is wide open and Stiles rolls his head back in frustration and disgust that Derek could simply sneak out and bail on him like that. But then Derek’s edging through the doorway again, beads of water running down his neck, flattening his hair against his forehead. He frowns.

“It was getting hot,” he explains. He doesn’t offer anything further. Stiles could be imagining the sheepishness.

“The water or the coke?”

“Water. Please.”

“So, you’re gonna show me how to transfer my almost satisfactory footwork into playing lacrosse, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, settling on the edge of his bed as Derek sits in his seat again. He takes a sip of coke through the straw, places his glass on the floor, rubs his hands down his thighs. Derek watches him, carefully.

“I’ll try. Can’t start immediately because I need to be prepared for the full moon.”

“You need to prepare? What kind of preparation?” This is precisely the kind of insight he’s always wanted.

“Not for me. For Erica, Isaac and Boyd. I need to be able to restrain them. I don’t shift during the full moon unless I want to.”

“Scott told me that,” Stiles admits, nodding slowly. “I thought maybe you used meditation or something.”

“I used to, when I was your age,” Derek says. He rolls his head around, examines his nails. “It’s unnecessary now.”

“Will Scott ever learn to be as disciplined as you are, or is it a born versus bite thing?” Stiles asks. He winces when Derek’s expression clouds further. 

“It’ll take time, but he’ll get there. I’ve been watching and learning since I was a child, but Scott’s quick on the uptake. I’d tell him he’s a natural if I didn’t think it’d make him hate me even more.”

“Scott doesn’t hate you,” Stiles says. He leans forward when Derek’s face does the haughty incredulous thing it frequently does when he thinks someone’s wrong. Stiles used to hate that face, but he’s started to find it damn near _endearing_. “Really, he doesn’t. He may say he does, but he’s wrong. I don’t think you truly realize how little Scott wanted all of this. You’ve called it a gift, Derek, but it hasn’t been for Scott.” Stiles purses his lips, frowns down at his shoes. He doesn’t say _’I don’t think it really has been for you either.’_

“Scott hates me,” Derek reiterates firmly. He squares his shoulders, as if physically stating, ‘but that’s okay, I’m fine with that.’ Which Stiles knows is a lie. 

“I don’t think either of you has any idea how to empathize with the other,” Stiles says. “Can you seriously not imagine what it’d be like to be thrust into a world you didn’t even know existed without any kind of decision-making occurring on your part?”

“Actually, yes,” Derek says. His whole demeanor has stiffened and it makes him look larger, dominant. “But since nothing could be done, the imaginary version of me would get the fuck over it.” 

“Something could have been done,” Stiles says, quietly. If he speaks too loudly, he thinks he’ll shatter the mirage of understanding they’ve created.

“There are lots of reasons as to why I did what I did, and not one of them had to do with deliberately screwing Scott over.”

“He doesn’t get that.”

“And what about you, Stiles?” Derek asks, deceptively casual. It’s a test. They both know it. 

Stiles shrugs, aiming for the same level of casual, badly. “I understand both perspectives and share neither.”

Derek snorts breath through his nose and stands. “One more spin around the room, or am I allowed to go?”

“One more spin,” Stiles insists. He crowds close to Derek and takes hold of his hand. “And please tell me that soon you’ll let me lead.”

“That was not part of our arrangement.”

“But I _am_ offense.”

“You know I’m gonna use that to state that you’re certainly offensive, right?” Derek asks, a sassy note to his tone that Stiles is secretly fond of. 

When it comes to losing himself with Derek’s body so close to his? He’s pretty sure there’s nothing left for him to lose. He’s already lost.


	9. Chapter 9

Derek thinks about everything Stiles says and decides he’ll act on those aspects he can. He spends the morning after their dancing session talking to Erica, Isaac and Boyd about meditation. He doesn’t have high hopes that it’ll work, but alongside training them in recognizing their anchors and triple checking his supply of chains and manacles, he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Stiles says he has an empathy problem and Derek’s not so arrogant he’s going to dismiss that claim. He does find it almost impossible to fathom Scott’s desperation for a ‘cure’ against something that has made him stronger than an ordinary human in almost every way. But the way Stiles has framed it; as Scott being thrust into a world he never asked for? He hadn’t thought of it in those terms, ever. That Scott had never asked for this was something he knew, but couldn’t _comprehend_.

Scott’s reaction makes more sense to him now. He thinks it probably indicates how shallow he is that he couldn’t have come to this conclusion himself. Narrow-minded. Closed-off. He’s been imprisoned in his own pain for so long he doesn’t have a clue how to respond to others’. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t his intention to take the cure away from Scott, that it was about survival, about Scott not having to have blood on his hands, about needing to avenge Laura and put Peter out of his misery for good. To Scott, it was betrayal. Commensurate, if not similar to what Kate did to him. And, yeah, Derek is beginning to identify with him on that level, even if he still can’t quite wrap his head around Scott _wanting_ to be asthmatic, fragile and incapable of defending himself against what’s to come.

And there’s the parallel with Kate again, pressing in on Derek. Thinking about how much control he has is simple when it’s merely theoretical. Exerting that control when faced with Stiles is not so simple. If it was purely physical, he’d manage it, he’s sure. He has years of experience in denying the wants and needs of his body. He’s always been cautious about how he goes about satisfying that aspect of life. But it isn’t purely physical. The very fact he’s taking Stiles’ advice and paying attention to his opinions proves that. So what should he do? Give in and pull Stiles close, despite how much it makes him want to yell “no” and “wrong” inside his head? Push him away again? Or do his best to keep them as they are currently --- working together amicably --- hoping he has the self-will to keep up the charade?

If only Derek was a more optimistic person. All this hoping might actually mean something to him. 

*

Stiles drags Scott to the depot two days after his dance lesson with Derek, because Isaac asks him to do so. It’s a covert operation conducted with the lure of coffee and artfully locked Jeep doors. Scott hasn’t been back there since his fracas with Derek and Isaac wants to discuss the shift and how Scott manages to ‘restrain the wolf’. Stiles only makes two jokes about how that’s an especially saucy euphemism. He could literally make seven more. They’re lined up in his mind for when he inevitably gets bored watching the others play. Scott glares mutinously at Stiles for a second before greeting the other wolves and Stiles knows they’re going to talk about this later. 

They’ve gotten into an awesome pattern lately of making sure they have at least two catch-up sessions a week to play video games or watch tv shows. They’re a season into _Farscape_ , because Scott made Stiles watch the entirety of _Heroes_ and Stiles believes in swift vengeance. The first season of _Heroes_ had been good; great even. After that? Stiles had been vocal in his disapproval. Unfortunately, his plan’s backfired, because Scott freaking adores _Farscape_. He thinks Allison is the Aeryn to his John. Stiles can see that, but wonders what that makes him, because he really doesn’t think he’s an adequate D’Argo and there’s no way he’s Rygel. He only wishes he had the moxie to be Chiana. Anyway, the point is, they’ve been hanging out, and Scott will bring this up, come hell or high water. Stiles wonders if he can distract him with the bodyswap episode.

Derek hangs back from everyone, jaw tensed. He doesn’t wave back at Stiles, nor welcome them in any way. Stiles firmly believes that Derek’s worst enemy is himself. Seriously. Out of Hunters, his Uncle, other monsters and whatever war Derek’s clearly been preparing himself for, no one is as consistently awful and adept at setting him back in all respects than Derek. Stiles saunters over, ignoring a far more ferocious glare than Scott’s. If eyes could kill, he’d be drawn and quartered.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says, by way of greeting. 

“Derek, you’re far and away the most charming person I’ve ever met, how could I resist?” Stiles deadpans. 

Actually, Derek can be charming. Stiles is charmed by him frequently when they’re alone together. It’s a strange, uncomfortable thought.

Derek’s expression doesn’t waver. “It’s dangerous,” he points out. “We’re only a day away from the full moon.”

“Which is why I’m here, because Scott wouldn’t come voluntarily.”

“Then he doesn’t belong here either.”

Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath and turns his own glare on Derek. “He can help them in ways you can’t. Have you ever heard of peer tutoring? It’s a proven fact that students learn better from other students. Dude, did you take your grouchy pill this morning? Was it a suppository?”

“Don’t cry at me when you’re halfway to eaten,” Derek replies, before storming away. 

Stiles rubs at the back of his neck as if it will ease his mental whiplash. Last they spoke, Derek was positively convivial. Today he’s whatever the hell that was. 

He finds a spot on the floor and listens to the betas’ conversations. Scott talks about how Stiles helped him figure out his anchor, and Stiles winces when he thinks about how good it had felt to let out some of his anger in the name of rendering his assistance. Boyd asks Scott about five variations of the same question and Scott answers them all patiently. Stiles smiles to himself as he listens because his little wolfie’s growing up. And other, far less condescending things.

Erica comes and sits with him when the others start to spar, claiming that she’s giving the boys an easy ride. The best part about that is that Stiles believes it. They’ve been talking more at school lately. Stiles has just about forgiven Erica for that time he found himself waking up in a dumpster. He thinks that if he’s managed to forgive Derek for bashing his forehead into his steering wheel, and Isaac for threatening Lydia, he should extend the other wolves the same courtesy. Really, when he thinks about it, none of them are blameless. Erica’s gotten to this awesome point where she’s retained her confidence, but balanced it out with a healthy dose of humor. This doesn’t stop her from being scary. Stiles always feels like she knows things he doesn’t, which goes along with what Isaac said once. Stiles doesn’t have the guts to ask her all her secrets. This doesn’t mean he has no questions.

“How’re you feeling about your third full moon?” Stiles asks, before nodding unthinkingly, impressed by Scott taking Isaac down with a single kick.

Erica shrugs. “I wish I could say it gets easier with time, but it still freaks me out.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware it freaked you out in any way,” Stiles returns, looking at her more closely. As far as he had understood, Erica took to being a werewolf with heartfelt glee.

Erica twists her mouth up, gives him eye contact. “I didn’t want to admit it, before. It felt too much like biting the hand that bit me. But, I’m looking forward to the days I’ll only shift when I want to. The whole ‘uncontrollable, pained transformation’ thing is a little too familiar.”

There’s no adequate response to that, so Stiles goes for reassurance with, “Derek was saying the other day that you’ll all get there, eventually. It takes practice.”

“Oh? Derek was saying that? Where was I?” Erica asks, a teasing glint coming into her eyes. 

“Why do I feel like you know exactly where you were?” Stiles braves, shaking his head. 

“I actually don’t, except, obviously not watching you tango. Which saddens me, truly it does.”

“It’s to help with lacrosse.”

“Really. That’s the simplest method.”

“Not the simplest, maybe, but the best in helping me improve what’s lacking in my game,” Stiles says, thinking he sounds like he’s toeing some kind of party line. The Dancing with Derek party, now with nine hundred times more unrequited unresolved sexual tension.

Boyd flings Scott into the wall, only for Scott to land on his feet and barrel into him with speed. It provides a nice distraction for a second or two.

“But you like it, or you wouldn’t have come back for more.”

“It’s a means to an end.”

Erica huffs out a laugh. “Is there some kind of phrasebook all guys get for when they want to lie? I think there must be.”

“Okay, fine. Yes, I kinda like it. It feels good to know I’m learning a new skill, for myself and at no one else’s behest.” 

Stiles is not going to mention how it was originally Derek’s behest. He can already sense the danger in sharing this much with Erica.

“There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Go and whip their asses,” Stiles orders, pointing at Boyd, Isaac and Scott, all breathing heavily as they lean against the depot wall, but as if it’s a joke and not him pleading to be left alone. “Show them who’s boss.”

“All right, but don’t think I’m going to forget this. We don’t all have selective amnesia,” Erica says, and it’s a testament to how intimidating she can be that the sweet smile she flicks Stiles is as menacing as hell. 

Stiles feels a prickle down his spine and half-twists to see Derek lurking in the shadows, watching the betas. He wonders if that’s where he’s been looking the whole time.

*

The night of the full moon, Stiles tries to convince Scott to visit the depot again. They’re in the kitchen making sandwiches, having finished up watching the episode of _Farscape_ involving three Crichtons and Stiles nonchalantly comments on how he imagines the others could do with some help. He’s deftly avoided Scott’s wrath regarding his bait and switch from the day before and he knows he’s pushing it, but he’ll withstand some grumpiness if it’s for the greater good.

Scott shakes his head. “They’ll be all right. They have Derek.” The last comment is darkly mocking, and Stiles scrunches up his face in response. 

“Maybe they need you both?”

“I don’t get why you keep pushing this,” Scott states loudly, tones diamond-sharp. “What do you get out of it, Stiles?”

The anger behind the words startles him and he can feel his stomach drop from Scott’s hostility. Scott usually makes his displeasure known with a pout and the silent treatment. He doesn’t yell in Stiles’ face. His emotions are always closer to the surface nearing the full moon, but this is vehement.

“I get the satisfaction of knowing that when everything goes to hell you’ll have more than me to rely on,” Stiles says, moving until he’s framing Scott’s arms. “You’ll have a team of people who are as strong, fast and brave as you’ll need. You’ll have a pack.” 

And maybe it’s more complicated than that, and a lot less selfless, but that doesn’t stop it from being true. He swallows and Scott’s expression clears.

“You’re all the pack I’ve ever needed,” Scott says, pushing forward into a hug. He steps back after a moment, clutching reassuringly at Stiles’ shoulder, and God, it _hurts_. 

Scott means it. It cuts Stiles up inside how earnest he is. All the guilt and self-anger that’s been slowly building within is unleashed with that one gesture. Stiles shakes his head at Scott, bites at his lower lip. He paces and finally bursts out with, “I’m the idiot who got you into all of this in the first place, Scott.”

Scott’s eyes widen. “You are an idiot. I can’t believe you think this is your fault.”

“If we hadn’t been out in the woods---“

“Did you burn down the Hale house?”

“No, what’re y---“

“Did you rehabilitate Peter Hale and then set him free? Did you _pay him_ to bite me?” 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” 

“I don’t blame you for what happened so what the hell are you doing blaming yourself?”

Stiles can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes and he sucks in a deep, trembling breath. He’s always known Scott didn’t blame him, they couldn’t have maintained their friendship if he had. Scott’s a kinder person than he is in a lot of ways. Stiles? He wishes he didn’t, but he can’t help but see the world in terms of retribution and reward. There’s always going to be part of him that thinks he’s owed a debt. But that also means he believes he owes others debts too. And Scott just doesn’t think like that. 

“As your best friend I should have protected you and instead I put you in danger.”

Scott drops his shoulders down and nods. “Okay, that one I’ll give you. But you can’t take full responsibility for my safety.”

“I know I can’t. Hence the pack.”

“But it has to be my choice, Stiles. You can’t force it on me just because you think it’s for my own good.”

“So let’s talk about that --- why isn’t it your choice? I’ve watched you with the others, man. You have an instinctive bond. When you guys practice your reflexes are quicker, your aim is awesome. You all seem to fall into a strategy none of you have talked about. You can’t tell me that you don’t feel more powerful?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be more powerful? Maybe I wanna be more normal?”

“But you’re not and you can’t be, not anymore,” Stiles reasons, softly.

Scott scowls, and yes, there’s that ever-pervasive sense that the expression is at odds with his features. “That’s Derek’s fault.”

“He’s no more to blame than I am, so if you don’t think I’m the one who fucked you over, why are you so ready to believe he is?”

“He took the cure away. Literally killed it, dead. My one shot at getting my life back to how it’s supposed to be.”

“There was no guarantee it would work. And even if it had, at what price? Can you tell me you don’t already have nightmares about that night? How normal would you have felt knowing you’d killed a man?”

“Why are you on his side?”

“I’m not. I’m on yours. But maybe I think it’s a circle. One side. Going round and round.”

Scott crumples to the ground, slumps against the counter. “Maybe you’re blinded by lust.”

“Oh my God, you cannot sound so accusatory saying that, you hypocrite.”

“I notice you’re not denying it.”

Stiles settles next to Scott, tips his chin down toward his chest. “There’s no use, you’d know I was lying even if you couldn’t smell it on me. I understand why you don’t love or trust Derek. But he’s only a few years older than us, he’s been through a lot of shit, and you’re usually the most compassionate person ever to exist, so why can’t that compassion extend to him?”

“It did! I recall a time you thought Derek deserved to die and I refused to let it happen. But I --- I can’t explain it.”

“It’s not like you to hold a grudge,” Stiles prompts, because it’s true, and because he can sense that Scott’s holding back.

Scott pouts, sighs. “Sometimes I think it’s because it reminds me of my dad, you know? All those promises, and then… nothing. Worse than nothing. He’s actually managed to take something away.”

Stiles doesn’t know the right way to respond to that. Scott spent most nights over at his when his dad was still living in Beacon Hills, because there was a joint custody situation going on that no judge had ever thought to ask Scott about. Scott shut down whenever his dad was mentioned and his smile always seemed forced. Stiles asked him when they were twelve if he was being beaten, because he’d never liked Mr McCall, he’d watched a documentary about domestic abuse, and he knew something was up. But Scott assured him that wasn’t it, it was usually nothing physical, no blows were needed to make him feel small. 

Stiles can’t count the times over the years Scott’s dad had said he’d go watch him at one of his Little League games, or drop off his inhaler, or make him something vaguely edible for dinner --- and if he’d been working, it would have been understandable, but there was a long time there where he didn’t have a job. And all of that is disregarding the names he’d called Scott and Mrs. McCall. Stiles feels like the biggest asshole. He can’t believe he never realized this before. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, knowing it’s wholly inadequate. 

“Yeah, me too.” Scott scrubs a hand through his hair, darts a look at Stiles. “You might be right about the whole pack thing. But I reserve the right to think Derek’s a jerkwad.”

“Derek really can be a jerkwad,” Stiles assents. “He’s… he’s not your Dad, but, yeah, Derek’s got issues.”

“I know he’s not my dad,” Scott says. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but there’s frustration there. “I never said _he_ reminded me of him, just the situation.”

“I know, I know that. I was trying to show my solidarity when it comes to acknowledging Derek’s asshole side. But also trying to defend him a teensy, tiny bit. Because, you know, no one else will.”

“Isaac does,” Scott says. “And when it comes to messed up fathers...” 

“Right! So, Derek can’t be all bad, can he?”

“Why do you like him again?”

Stiles gives a one-shouldered shrug. It’s a good question, with a complex answer. “I can also be a jerkwad. Very occasionally. Once in the bluest of moons. Should we go, then?”

“I should,” Scott sighs. “You should definitely stay here.”

“Yeah, it’d suck if we had this heart to heart and then I was chewed to pieces by your newly adopted pack.”

“I never said I was going to join the pack,” Scott says, sounding baffled. “I said you might be right. In theory.”

“But you’re all so cute together,” Stiles wheedles. Upon studying Scott’s expression, he raises his hands. “Okay, I can see that you need time and space and less coercion from me.”

“Thank you,” Scott says, not making an effort to stand up.

He picks at the hem of his shirt, leans into Scott’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen. With me and Derek.”

“No, of course not,” Scott replies with a crinkled brow, as if the very thought is completely inconceivable. “You’re way too sensible.”

Stiles doesn’t correct Scott’s assumption, though it makes him think. Is he? If Derek were remotely interested in him, in _him_ , not just another body, would he be sensible? Or would he take a chance? Because it could be the worst of all ideas, or it could work. Stiles has always had a reckless streak. It’s been severely dented since late-night visits to the woods, but it’s still a part of him. 

He’s never seriously considered it, because he’s never thought there’s the remotest possibility. Even when he was attempting to ignore how dancing had made him feel, “something happening with Derek” had never really been in his mental vocabulary. But now the question’s been raised. 

Stiles is the kid who dragged his best friend out the night before school because he wanted to discover half a dead body. Stiles is _far_ from sensible.


	10. Chapter 10

Scott arrives at the depot just after 9 pm. He doesn’t talk to Derek, but just gets to work discussing breathing techniques and maintaining focus with Isaac, Erica and Boyd. Just him being there is a stabilizing influence that lends Derek strength. Derek gathers his chains together and helps place them as a precaution, but as a pack they concentrate more on meditation. It’s surprisingly difficult to do breathing exercises when someone’s glaring at you like they wished you were dead. This time, Derek does not return the glare. He looks away and wonders if Scott will get the hint he’s done fighting. He has nothing to say about accusing Scott of giving up on everything. The comment was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He doesn’t even want to admit to himself that it was an instinctive, irrational jealousy at the familiarity between best friends, but he does. He has no claim over Stiles. Shouldn’t want to have one, either. That he feels like he has one is just another wall between him and Scott.

Scott and Isaac talk about anchors and how they use them to both call the wolf and tamp it down and from this conversation Derek has gained a lot of insight into the inner workings of his betas. The anchor discussion doesn’t surprise him. He’s had this talk with both them on different occasions. Referring to what they are controlling as ‘the wolf’, though, that gives him pause. He’s never seriously thought of ‘the wolf’ as a separate entity before. Sometimes he’s thought of himself as having two sides. But he’s never put more value on one side over the other, like Isaac and Scott appear to be doing. They talk about their humanity being in control and while there are aspects of that, it isn’t the whole truth. When he was growing up he had to shift to access his full powers, but that wasn’t like adopting something other, it was more like limbering up his body before exercise, or chanting and reciting a pep talk before a big game. 

The thought of an integral aspect of who he is being like a force laid on top of him is baffling. But recognizing that as a perspective makes it easier to relate to the younger werewolves. He thought he’d been clear with Isaac, Erica and Boyd that what he was going to do would change them from the inside out, transform them completely into better versions of themselves. But instead they’re still struggling with identity crises. To them there’s who they are and then a detached power they can access. The human and the wolf. He needs to think of ways to disabuse them of this notion. And throwing them around isn’t going to cut it. He kind of wishes it did. Life was simpler when training involved tossing his pack in the air. He knows he isn’t being particularly mature in thinking that. 

While Scott and Isaac talk, Erica alternates between mocking Boyd for the abilities he has yet to develop, and testing her enhanced reflexes. It’s painfully obvious she’s pulling Boyd’s pigtails when she slides up against him and asks if he can smell how excited she is. It’s both sexual provocation and a well-placed jab at Boyd’s difficulty with recognizing scent. He gets her back by asking her how her self-discovery is going. That’s a joke based on her sexual provocation and the difficulties she experienced finding an anchor. She’s been the last to figure out her anchor, and she refuses to share what it is. This isn’t the wisest decision but when Derek says this, Scott grunts at him, as if to say ‘like you know anything about wise decisions’. Later that evening, when Derek is dealing with a Boyd who has injured his wrist trying to tear through his manacles, he hears Scott ask her about her anchor too. He’s stupidly pleased when she doesn’t answer --- and it’s obvious that his irrational jealousy isn’t only Stiles based, which isn’t the comfort it should be. 

In the early morning, Scott leaves without saying goodbye, and while it was touch and go for a while there, all of the betas have managed to override their instincts and maintain control. Derek knows that he owes Scott showing up to Stiles, so he texts to meet him in the morning for a lacrosse session. At this point, he can’t promise it isn’t as much about indulging a guilty pleasure as it is feeling like he’s paying off a debt. Even though he knows it’s too dangerous, he would have appreciated seeing Stiles. He doesn’t question that too much.

Hours later, the sky is overcast and threatening rain, but they’re out on the lacrosse pitch regardless. Derek’s boombox is on the bleachers, filled with batteries that Stiles said he was pretty sure had been discontinued decades ago. He might be right, but they work. The tango cassette he found in Beacon Hills’ single second-hand store is playing across the stretch of grass. 

The idea is half-dance, half-lacrosse. Warm up, revise, show Stiles how to carry his poise over into the game. It’s damnably easy to say, but Derek knows it won’t be easy to do. It took him weeks and that was under constant supervision --- which he really can’t afford to give. Yet still wants to. 

Because he can’t separate himself into two discrete parts of human and wolf, he knows it isn’t just the wolf inside that itches to drag Stiles close and touch him all over. It’s more than an animal compulsion. Stiles moves like his limbs are dead weights and when Derek takes him into a hold he slumps more than usual. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheeks as he blinks against the gray-tinged but bright light. 

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Derek mutters, knowing he sounds more concerned than irritated.

Stiles’ gaping mouth firms into a thin line. “Of course,” he rasps, voice sleep-thick. “I got a good two hours of shut-eye in between update texts, your summons, and now.”

Derek hauls Stiles up straighter, but does not growl at that comment. The urge to scold Stiles is frustratingly present, but Stiles is just being Scott’s best friend. Stiles leans against his chest, rubs his head into his neck, and he’s seen Stiles exhausted before, knows this is par for the course, but he finds himself sighing into the movement anyway. 

“Do you wanna stop?” he asks.

“No. No! Just gimme a minute,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder. Derek feels the heat and dampness of him through his shirt. He swallows against a moan. 

“We could do this again later. When you’re fully functional.”

“Dude, unkind. I am programmed in multiple techniques. That one’s _Star Trek_ , by the way, _The Next Generation_. To save you from having to google it at the library. Do you remember anything I taught you? You never did hand in your homework.” 

By the end of his sentence, Stiles has pushed himself off Derek and is staring at him narrow-eyed. He’s almost positioned for them to start dancing, but not quite. Derek eases his foot forward, his hips brushing against Stiles’, and kicks his feet further apart. He’s done this before, but never watched Stiles’ reaction. And it is memorable. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his hand scrunches shut around Derek’s and his cheekbones start to stain pink. Stiles licks his lips and Derek steps close into him, pausing and raising his eyebrow when Stiles doesn’t follow. He steps again, until they’re pressed tight, watching how Stiles’ gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth. 

“You need to move,” he says softly. The skin of Stiles’ palm is warm and smooth against his, his breath jets against his cheek. 

“I really do,” Stiles replies, and then doesn’t move an inch. 

Derek pushes up against his shin again, squeezes his hand. He’s far more gentle than he suspects he should be, trying to force Stiles into stepping back. He won’t confess to being disappointed when Stiles eventually does as he’s supposed to and follows his steps. 

“Think about what your feet are doing,” Derek says, “about how you’re maintaining balance.”

“That might be tricky. I’m totally using you to support me right now.”

Derek huffs out a breath and relaxes his hold on Stiles, makes him take more of his own weight. “If you’re not gonna do this the right way, we’re not gonna do it at all.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says and quits leaning against Derek. Derek moves forward again, starting the step from the beginning.

They’re out in the open, so this should feel public and exposed. Derek should continuously be thinking about how anyone could come to the field at any moment to practice their own game and see them here. To an outsider, this would seem overwhelmingly inappropriate at worst, a touch suspect at best. Hell, to an insider, it isn’t much better. But being outside just means that Derek enjoys the crunch of grass underneath their feet and a soft cool breeze ruffling against his shirt. There remains a sense of closeness, of being cut off from the rest of the world. He likes it. The illusion that the only responsibility he has is to improve Stiles’ feet-body coordination. That the only face he has to see is a friendly, teasing, oddly attractive one. He’s been spending far too much time concentrating on the attractiveness of it, on Stiles’ deceptively defined cheekbones and jawline, the fullness of his lips and the color of his eyes. His expressions can be rubbery and ridiculous and he’s often too expressive, in all the ways imaginable. Derek finds he really likes that too. 

“Scott didn’t go into much detail in his texts, so tell me, was there much wailing and gnashing of teeth last night?” Stiles suddenly asks, pulling Derek out of his reverie. 

Derek shrugs within their hold. “Not as much as there has been in the past.”

“That’s good, right? Our devious plot is working.”

Derek frowns at Stiles. “If you’re expecting a thank you for Scott’s appearance, this is it.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh. “Oh man, you’re so damaged. I wasn’t expecting you to thank me, but it’s oh so gracious of you to do so. And so early in the morning, too. Exactly what any sane person would want the morning after a stress-filled night.”

“I didn’t know you were stupid enough to stay up.”

“I think it’s been established that I would do anything for love b---”

“Stop that reference right now,” Derek snaps, but with no heat. He peers at Stiles, assesses him. Yes, Stiles is tired, but talking about the full moon doesn’t rattle him. He knew Scott was a werewolf before Scott did and instead of being horrified to his core, he stood by him and helped him out. And maybe that’s down to guilt, but that doesn’t mean he doesn't also display fortitude. “How’s this been so easy for you?”

“How do you think this has been easy? Did we not have the ‘I’ve only gotten two hours of sleep in the last twenty-eight hours’ conversation literally twenty seconds ago?”

“That’s one sleepless night.”

“More than one.”

“All right, but as symptoms go, that’s mild. You’ve adjusted quickly. To gore and violence. Paralysis, treading water, going up against hunters and supposedly mythical creatures --- against _Peter_ ,” Derek says. Stiles begins to go stiff, back straightening further, movements shifting from sluggish to stilted. “Don’t you ever think about the things you’ve done since this all started? The things you might do? You didn’t want to saw off my arm, but you were going to. What else could you be convinced of doing, Stiles?”

“I was only going to saw off your arm because you threatened to eat me, Derek. You’re lucky I’m a forgiving person, because otherwise, this intimacy right here? Would not be happening,” Stiles bites back, pinching Derek’s shoulder. “I’ve done and I’ll continue to do what I have to. No less. Maybe more. But don’t mistake for a second that it’s been _easy_. The staying up thing? It isn’t a choice. And you know what, I ask the same questions you do, but I push on, because someone has to and it might as well be me.”

Derek dips his head down to avoid Stiles’ glowering. “I think you’re under the assumption I’m insulting you, but for once that isn’t my intention. All I’m saying is that you’ve shown a lot of strength in standing by Scott under some really fucking awful circumstances and it surprises me. Not everyone would be capable.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I think people adapt to whatever fucking awful circumstance they find themselves in.”

Derek snorts. “Scott hasn’t adapted.”

“Yes he has. Just because he hasn’t done it in a way you’ve sanctioned, doesn’t mean he hasn’t adapted,” Stiles says. He’s completely awake now, and with that comes the kind of anger that is eerily reminiscent of passion. “And you know what, Derek? Maybe I’m not completely put off by gruesomeness and creatures that go bump in the night, like apparently everyone else would be, but my dad’s a cop and my mom died as I was lying next to her, so --- we’re shaped by our life experiences.”

Derek knows he’s crossed a line. The friendly, teasing face he was enjoying before has been replaced by a scowl. And he honestly can’t blame Stiles. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like Stiles is callous, but he realizes he did. He can tell he’s grazed against something raw within Stiles, a place he usually avoids touching. Stiles reacts like he does when asked personal questions and the familiarity is jarring. Stiles called him damaged and he is, he can’t deny that, but it’s increasingly clear that Stiles was speaking from experience.

He steps away, not thinking about the sense of loss, picks up some padding and a stick. 

“You look like you’ve warmed up. Lacrosse?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Lacrosse.”

*

Stiles jumps up and down and whoops for joy when he scores a goal. He thinks Derek probably let him get away with it, but he’s decided that doesn’t make it any less of a success. He’s about to set off running again when Derek tackles him to the ground. Derek actually cradles the back of his head when he brings him down and the padding he insisted on helps lessen the impact, but it’s still a shock, so Stiles stares up at the sky for a few moments. 

His skin feels tight and uneasy. He wants to rant and rave at Derek about his hypocrisy and unfairness. But whenever he catches Derek’s eye and there’s an expression that’s difficult to decipher, yet certainly doesn’t seem to harbor ill-will, he feels wrong-footed. He thinks maybe it’s true that he’s taken Derek’s words to heart in a way they weren’t intended and the very fact he’s thinking that at all leads him to believe he’s irretrievably screwed when it comes to all things Derek. Because he’s started making excuses for his shitty behavior left, right and center. Because he wants to forgive him and continue on with how they started the day. Especially with the snuggling. He should be ashamed of that, his body’s willful gravitation toward Derek’s, but he isn’t. Not when it’s happening again right now, his hips pushing up insistently, as if to buck Derek off, but really to feel his heat. The fact that Derek hasn’t stopped him is interesting. A dangerous kind of interesting, but enough for Stiles to ponder it.

“You can’t let your guard down,” Derek reproaches, and Stiles stifles a laugh, because it’s true on so many levels. 

“I’m better though, aren’t I?” Stiles crows, luxuriating in the grass beneath his back and determinedly not thinking about the fact Derek hasn’t gotten up. “You let me score, but that was because you saw how I didn’t trip, not even once!”

“I didn’t let you score,” Derek says, irritably. “I don’t make a habit of throwing games.” 

Stiles does laugh at that. It’s a charming combination of pissy, melodramatic and sassy. Derek is ludicrous.

“You’re ludicrous. And you’re telling me I legitimately beat you?”

“I was distracted,” Derek grumbles. He levers himself up, his fingers brushing against Stiles’ scalp as he pulls his hand away, thighs settling closer momentarily. 

“What by?” Stiles asks, realizing a second too late that the tone he’s adopted sounds a lot like flirtation. 

“Cars.”

“Cars?” Stiles parrots, standing up and brushing himself off.

“On the road, nearby. By the sound of scraping metal and the crack of glass, I’d say there’s been a minor collision.”

Stiles doesn’t believe it for a second and he figures his expression says so with flashing neon lights, because Derek tosses the ball to him and juts his chin forward in challenge. 

“It won’t happen again,” Derek says. 

Stiles wonders if that’s true.


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles thinks about what Derek said. He thinks about it a lot. Like, all the time. Usually, Stiles’ mental meanderings tend to take him all over the place. He’ll do freeform word association from noon to night, skipping from one topic to the next. To him, these connections are always logical and rational, but sometimes others have difficulty getting why Stiles is talking about Kevin Bacon when they were only just discussing the Mesozoic era. But the things Derek said and the imagined or real consequences of his words? They occupy his thought processes _constantly_. 

His thoughts cycle between three main threads of connected thoughts. The first thread is preoccupied with his immediate reaction of anger to Derek’s words. He still feels it, a tight ball at the base of his gut; this sense that Derek discounts any pain that isn’t his own, that he ignores the symptoms and the signs of a break down if they don’t conform to his narrow view of the world. Part of him wants to rage and scream and accuse.

But then there’s the second thread of consciousness, wherein he takes it as the compliment Derek said he meant. He starts to wonder if Derek’s really saying Stiles has adapted well in relation to him. He may be projecting, but his instincts say not. Because Derek was once a kid who used to get As and was taught how to dance by his sister. And Stiles knows Derek wasn’t lying about the As, because he paid Danny the last of his savings to hack into the school records, until he discovered they were still all paper and then had to check while he was ‘volunteering’ at the school’s office. Derek was a teenager who played lacrosse and according to the newspapers and yearbooks, had friends. Stiles had asked his dad about the Hales after Derek told him to check up on his lacrosse credentials, and there was no trouble before the fire, they were widely regarded as a close-knit, happy family. 

And now Derek lives in an abandoned railroad depot, goes through life intimidating and menacing to get things he could simply ask for, and hangs around with three teenagers he turned into werewolves for reasons he won’t share. Stiles has never heard Derek genuinely laugh and the smiles he’s seen are few and far between. If what Derek had been trying to say was that Stiles is coping, then it’s true, he is. It’s pretty obvious Derek hasn’t always; maybe isn’t to this day. Derek has survived, but he isn’t fully intact. 

Which all brings Stiles to his third thought-stream, wondering how well he is managing, and whether he hasn’t let wolfiness consume him. He’s keeping up with his studies, but everything else has fallen by the wayside. Shouldn’t he be spending his Friday and Saturday nights tearing up the town? Shouldn’t he be going to parties and making bad life choices that have nothing to do with the threat of death and everything to do with a mistimed rendition of the shuffle? Shouldn’t he be surrounded by friends? If he doesn’t make a concerted effort to live and act his age now, is he doomed to live vicariously through others in a few years’ time? To brood constantly as opposed to occasionally?

Okay, granted, he can see why someone else would think his leaps of logic in this situation are on par with that time he wrote an essay about Tony the Tiger when he should have been writing about Harry Houdini. (In his defense, that essay was grrrrreat.) But it makes sense to him that Derek’s suggestion should lend itself to him finding a solution, even when none was apparently needed. So he decides to be a dumb teenager in a non-lethal capacity and organize a little soiree.

*

Stiles invites Scott and Allison first, of course. Scott is cheerfully enthusiastic at the prospect of going out, even though he also wants to finish season 2 of _Farscape_. Allison asks if she can invite Lydia and Stiles joyously agrees, not thinking there’s a hope in hell she’ll say yes. It’s a shock and a disappointment when she does and says she’s bringing Jackson. Stiles really doesn’t want to be the fifth wheel of his own get-together and he also wants to play with the pack when they’re not throwing each other through the air, so he asks Erica, Isaac and Boyd along. 

And then he spends an entire day debating asking Derek too. Not a minute goes by when he doesn’t raise the question to himself and then dismiss it. They’ve gotten to a point when, alone, they can hold a civil conversation. More than civil. Closely bordering on friendly. Toss anything new into the mix and Derek becomes a shut-in again, Stiles becomes reactionary. It’s probably the opposite of healthy and doesn’t automatically engender a sense that they have a stable and well-adjusted relationship, but it’s true. There’s also the little matter of Derek most likely not wanting to spend an evening surrounded by teenagers. If Stiles doesn’t ask him, Derek can’t reject him, right? Finally, there is no way he wants to ask Derek out with him when the possibilities for miscommunication and assumptions are so high. There is _something_ there, something indefinable, and Stiles would be willing to bet that it isn’t completely one-sided, but he has no money and doesn’t want to take the risk. 

In the end, he doesn’t ask. He feels bad about that in the same way he felt bad when he was seven and accidentally asked everyone in his class to his birthday party except a kid called Lucas, who hated him forevermore. 

The evening becomes tamer than he initially imagined. They go to Beacon Hills’ retro diner, that Scott swears has always been that way and isn’t subscribing to some kind of theme, but is genuinely stuck in a past decade. Outside, they have tables and benches under a shelter and because it’s crowded inside, as a group they make the collective decision to eat in the cool night air. Stiles orders a gigantic chocolate-flavored milkshake and refuses to share with Scott, even though he has his own straw and Stiles stole a gulp of his root beer float. They sit, chatting, eating curly fries and the kinds of cheeseburgers Stiles usually denies himself, because it doesn’t seem fair that he should eat the food of the Gods when he makes his dad eat vegetables ninety per cent of the time. 

At first, conversation is stilted and no matter how many starters Stiles interjects to get the ball rolling, he’s largely ignored and silence reigns. He isn’t sure he wants to live in a world where people refuse to compare Star Wars and Star Trek to America and Canada respectively. He and Scott talk it over for a short while, but they’ve had the discussion before and already know each other’s points of view. Eventually, Lydia narrows her eyes at Erica, and instead of starting what would no doubt be a hot and feisty cat-fight that Stiles would pay his non-existent money to see, asks where she got her boots and skirt, and somehow that opens the floodgates. Before long, Jackson and Boyd are talking lacrosse techniques, Isaac and Allison discover a mutual love of a band Stiles has never heard of, with additional input from Scott, and Stiles looks around him and thinks about what he has accomplished. It’s good. It could be better, but it’s nice. So far, all mentions of furry little problems have been relaxed and joking. Not even Jackson is spoiling the mood with his predisposition to be a jerk. 

Stiles has successfully shoved eight curly fries into his mouth at once when he spots him, standing at the far end of the street. A shadow falls across more than half his face, so all Stiles can see of his expression is the tight, thin line of his mouth. He bites his lower lip, rocks his elbows forward on the table. Scott notices the movement, leans in. 

“You’ve seen him too?”

Stiles nods. He looks at Scott beseechingly. He knows he doesn’t even have to say the words. Scott nods and Stiles is ready to get up and walk over, hoping Derek won’t run off, when Scott stands and lays a hand against his upper back. 

“I’ve got this.”

Stiles worries this may be one of the rare times Scott has misinterpreted one of his looks when he watches the stiff gait Scott adopts to make his way over to Derek. But since no heads go flying off shoulders, he doesn’t stand up and scream, “Abort, abort!” like he wants to.

He waits.

*

Erica had mentioned where they’d be and suggested he should swing by, but they all look so happy he decides he’ll turn right around and return to the depot. This is no place for him. No one needs or wants him here and he wasn’t truly invited. He refuses to sulk, although he does pause over it for longer than he’d like. He would have said no, anyway, he thinks, although he’s standing here now. 

He’s taking a step back when Stiles and Scott spot him and he’s stuck in the kind of uncomfortable moment he usually does his best to avoid; wherein his first instinct is to be unspeakably rude, but he figures that will only make everything worse. It isn’t right that he really wants to make everything worse. 

Scott walks over, puffing himself up like he’s warding off a predator, and Christ, Derek thought he was long past caring about his appearance, but that action alone indicates how this must look.

“Derek,” Scott says, with the smallest hint of accusation in his voice. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

“Seriously?” Derek asks, waiting for the punchline, for the expected jab.

“Yeah. There’s an hour until _Thor_ and I’m pretty sure Stiles is looking for an excuse to order another plate of curly fries he can inhale.”

Scott half-turns away, eyes back on his friends. Derek frowns to himself, crosses his arms against his chest. As olive branches go, this is gnarled and brittle, but it remains an olive branch.

“What did Stiles say?”

“Just then? We were debating the merits of Star Wars versus Star Trek. It’s an old argument and we’ll never agree, and for some reason Stiles insists that that’s because of my love of beavers.”

Derek stares at Scott. There was no way that wasn’t deliberate. “About me,” he clarifies grudgingly. 

“He said you’re an asshole with issues,” Scott says matter-of-factly, and it’s not a lie, Stiles must have said that. Derek locks away the small flare of pain he shouldn’t be feeling.

“Then why are you here? Why did you help out the other night?”

“He may also have hinted that we all are, in our own ways. Are you coming, or not?”

Derek answers with a step. It’s forward as opposed to backwards and surprises him as much as it does Scott. Outside the diner, the others look up at him with expressions that range from pleased to concerned. Jackson looks particularly unhappy to see him, but he sits as far away from him as it’s possible to get, which just so happens to be on the other side of Stiles, who is one of the pleased ones, weirdly. 

“How’s your day been?” Stiles asks, and Derek raises his eyebrows, because how is he expected to answer that sensibly. 

“Fine,” he says, effortless in his non-commitment. 

“Good. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? You look like a French fry eater to me. I’ll ask them to keep the fries separate from the onion rings if you want? Wouldn’t want you getting a tummy ache.”

“More dog jokes, Stiles? They’re beneath you. You know, I can get my own food.”

“Ahuh, but I was going back in anyways. I know you prefer water, but do you want a coke?” 

Derek suspects Stiles is trying to escape him, so he nods, once, and sits listening to the various conversations occurring around the table. He has nothing to offer to counteract Isaac’s opinions on music, he hasn’t actively sought out music for any purpose than a distraction in years, and he doesn’t think Jackson would appreciate a critique of his performance on the lacrosse field. Scott and Allison are making cutesy eyes at one another as Isaac rants and Erica and Lydia are talking about people he’s never heard of, but thinks may be designers. He was right in that he’s unnecessary here.

“You owe me $5.75,” Stiles says as he sets precariously balanced foodstuffs in front of them. “I took the initiative and bought you a burger too. Extra onion since you insist on ruining all my stereotyped fun.”

“That was uncommonly kind of you,” Derek says, reaching into his pocket and bringing his wallet out. 

With his wallet comes the folded up answers to Stiles’ homework quiz that he completed a month ago and Stiles reaches for it before he can stop him, smooths it out. Derek takes a hasty bite of his burger so he won’t have to answer any questions. Stiles reads through his answers as he gobbles down curly fries, and Scott wasn’t lying, it’s full-scale inhalation at breakneck speed. Derek only sneaks three out before the plate’s gone. Their fingers brush when he’s going for the second curly fry, and Stiles glances up at him, but doesn’t say anything or slap his hand away. 

The others continue to talk about things he has no idea of or doesn’t care for, and Derek looks at the table, absorbing the relaxed atmosphere, but feeling distinctly detached from it all. He notices that Stiles doesn’t contribute much to the conversation even when he’s finished eating and reading and he wonders about that, but doesn’t comment on it. Fifteen minutes later, Boyd’s saying that they need to get walking to the theater or they won’t make it in time.

Derek has no desire to watch _Thor_ , no matter how much his betas protest. He feels painfully awkward as he lightly puts a hand on Scott’s shoulder and thanks him. Scott mirrors his emotions with a confused expression, but says “sure,” like he thinks it may happen again. Derek turns to say goodbye to Stiles, but instead of easy acceptance, like he expected, he’s tossing his keys in the air.

“I can drive you back to the depot. I’ve seen it twice already. It was a cam, but I think I got the gist.”

Derek shakes his head. “I’ll run back.” He remembers his manners a beat too late. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Of course you can run. It doesn’t mean you should. C’mon, let me drive you. It’ll be quicker.”

Derek can’t help himself. He raises an eyebrow. “In _your_ Jeep?”

Rather than be offended, as Derek had half-hoped, Stiles gives him the sweetest smile he’s ever seen. His eyes widen and his lips curve upwards, showing his teeth white and gleaming. Derek feels his heart stop dead before kick starting back at twice the pace.

“All right,” he concedes, shoving his hands into his pockets, because he has the horrible urge to touch Stiles; trace along his jaw and smooth his thumb against his lower lip. 

Stiles lets everyone know that they’re going. Scott glances at him interestedly, but he doesn’t glare, which is surprising and as close to gratifying as their situation has ever gotten. Erica gives a knowing smile that Derek would like to erase from his memory, Boyd looks mildly put out, and no one else seems to care. In the Jeep, Derek attempts to turn on the radio, to preempt any need for discussion, but it isn’t working. 

“It died three weeks ago,” Stiles mutters by way of explanation. “You don’t know how to fix car radios, do you? It’s not one of your presumably many hidden talents?”

“No,” Derek answers abruptly. It’s a brilliant conversation-ender.

They’re half-way to the depot before Stiles speaks again. “I wanted to ask you.”

Derek takes a leaf out of Scott’s book by being deliberately obtuse. “About what?”

“To come,” Stiles says, hesitating a fraction between the words. “But I didn’t want you to get the… well, the wrong idea.”

“I’d be able to tell if it was the wrong idea,” Derek says with a shrug, because Stiles keeps looking at him and he wants to be as casual as possible. There’s a low thrum under his skin and his nails are digging into his palms. 

And because he can’t leave well enough alone, Stiles asks, “How?”

“I’d smell a spike of arousal, hear the quickened pace of your heart.”

Stiles scoffs. “As if that’d be any different from normal.” He seems to realize what he’s said two seconds too late. There’s the edge of a comedic flail in the way he turns his eyes back to the road. 

“It’d be more specific,” Derek says, still maintaining an aura of calm that he really doesn’t feel. “Why did you organize this anyway?”

“You said that I’ve adapted well to the situation and it made me realize that I’ve been so consumed by all the werewolf shenanigans I haven’t let myself do regular, average teenaged stuff, and for some reason, my mental picture of what regular, average teenagers spend time doing is set in the 1950s, so… milkshakes and a movie with the pack and their associates seemed like a good idea. It was a way to test pack bonding and being normal at the same time.”

“And yet you bailed on your test subjects.”

“I don’t think I can do normal. I’ve never actually been average. There’s always been something setting me apart,” Stiles says. His tone is full of laughter, but there’s a darker undercurrent to his words that Derek thinks speaks the truth. 

“You’re normal to me,” Derek says, and isn’t sure if that’s an insult or a compliment, or whether Stiles will take it as either of those options. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, sounding considering. “I guess I am.”

“Do you ever wish you could?” Derek asks, knowing he shouldn’t be continuing the conversation, but wanting to anyway. At Stiles’ confused ‘whu?’, he continues. “Be a regular teenager?”

Stiles taps his fingers against his steering wheel, and instead of answering, shoots a question back. “Do you wish you were an ordinary human?”

“No,” Derek says. “Never.”

“Even when it’s caused you pain and suffering and disappointment?”

“Ordinary humans deal with pain and suffering and disappointment every day. I don’t see how I’d gain anything. Being a werewolf isn’t a condition that’s been forced on me, Stiles. It isn’t what I am, it’s who I am.”

Stiles nods. “I feel the same. About not being your average bear. Yes, life would probably be easier if I could focus one hundred per cent on what I’m supposed to, and they do say ignorance is bliss, but the things that make me weak help me get stronger too, so I don’t begrudge or regret them. Not anymore.”

“But you did once,” Derek prompts.

“When my Dad was first left by himself with me, having to take full responsibility for my medication and my frequent school antics,” Stiles says, voice lighter than it should be, like it’s a joke, but it isn’t and Derek doesn’t need heightened senses to be able to see that. 

“That’s when I wished I could be like everyone else,” Stiles continues. “The last year of elementary school was the worst. There was the added stress of my mom, so homework wasn’t a high priority and my teacher was freaking the fuck out because he was supposed to be preparing me for Junior High and I was, like, bouncing off the walls. So my doctor at the time put me on Ritalin, which, if he’d had half a brain, he wouldn’t’ve done, because it does not mix well with anxiety and it made me more hyperactive. Instead of seeing that he should change tack, he upped the dosage and that just made me a zombie. And oh, hey, I had no idea this was going to turn into The Stiles Hour. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Derek says. He wants to say that it interests him, but he thinks that would sound cold, unfeeling, and he isn’t unfeeling, he has no choice but to accept that. Hearing these stories adds to the admiration he should be quashing. “This is what I was trying to say the other day. That you’re strong. Anyone else would give up, or bow down to their disadvantages, but you don’t. If anything, you excel.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, but then, he does and says a lot of things against his common sense when it comes to Stiles. Stiles’ non-reaction is notable. He brushes a hand against the back of his neck, then eases the Jeep into the parking space he uses for the depot. He doesn’t say anything in direct response, he doesn’t move, beyond gesturing vaguely. When he takes a quick look at Derek, it’s with a closed-off guardedness that he hasn’t had around Derek for months. 

“We’re here,” Stiles says, in such a weird, choked tone that Derek worries he’s said something painfully insulting. He replays his words, can’t think of anything he might have said that would provoke such an angry reaction. It’s alarming how much he wants to fix whatever mistake he’s made. Derek reaches out with all of his senses, but he can’t decipher the many conflicting cues to Stiles’ emotions that he gets.

“Thanks, for the ride,” he says. “I’ll even concede that it was quicker than if I’d gone on foot. By about forty whole seconds.”

“Come to mine, on Wednesday?” Stiles says, still strange-voiced, but clearly not angry, if he’s asking Derek over. “Dad’s working the night shift and there’s another first line try-out in two weeks.”

“Of course,” Derek replies. “You know, I don’t think I’m jumping the gun by saying I think you’ll make it this time, but every little counts.”

Stiles’ mouth quirks and he looks and sounds more like himself. “I appreciate the sentiment, but something you need to know is that Coach Finstock is crazypants. I don’t mean adorably eccentric, bumbling professor style. I mean horrible television psych ward clichéville. I would feel bad for how douchey a statement that is if it weren’t true.”

“Yeah, I know. He was Coach when I played too. He used to call me the apple of his pie. I didn’t know if he had no clue _that_ wasn’t the saying or if it was absolutely deliberate, and in the end, I really didn’t want to know the answer, because I couldn’t decide which was more disturbing.”

“That it was deliberate, dude. Creepiest definitely if it had been deliberate,” Stiles says incredulously. “With your skills in creeperdom, I would’ve thought you’d know that.”

“There’s a distinct and profound difference between being a proficient lurker and being Finstock,” Derek retorts. 

Stiles’ answering grin is bright and burning, and Derek has no idea what to do with himself, none at all. He climbs out the Jeep and gives a curt salute. 

“Wednesday,” Stiles calls out his window, driving off with the opposite of a roar. Derek stands, watching, until the Jeep is long gone.

Wednesday.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles goes home and downloads a cam version of _Thor_ , because Scott is sure to want to re-enact and quote it and that’s not a lie he especially wants to be caught out on. Through distraction and faked casualness, he thinks he got away with it. He doesn’t want to think too much about why he chose to. His experiment was a success, and among all of the other buzzing beneath his skin, he’s proud of himself for that. The pack got along in a semblance of normal. It feels like a step in a positive direction. If they can keep it up they might actually develop some pack cohesion, weather through the trials and tribulations of supernatural teenagedom. No, he wasn’t involved in much of the conversation, but he didn’t have to be. People always think that because he can talk, loudly and longly, about any number of interesting and outlandish topics, that he has to. He believed it himself --- but he’s been discovering he really doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have to fill every silence, doesn’t have to babble over unspoken words. He’s always been skilled at talking without saying much, but he thinks he’s changing in that regard too. 

He hasn’t spoken about his mom’s death with anyone. Not with his dad, because it’s too raw for both of them and they’ve been keeping secrets from each other for years, long before Surprise! Werewolves!; the type that Stiles knows can twist and dig into the very center of you. Not with Scott, because he was there, and he got to see what it was like. Not with anyone since. But he opened up to Derek and it feels strange, like an itch he could never reach. 

He doesn’t want to take it back. That’s the weirdest part. He’s shown Derek all of his soft, fleshy vulnerabilities and he has no compunction to re-clothe himself in a hard, crusty shell of sarcasm, flippancy and scorn. And Derek judged him, but he didn’t find him wanting, or pathetic, or weak. He called him _strong_ , again, and he sounded like he was impressed. It’s a lot to take in. 

Most of the time, Stiles doesn’t feel strong. He feels like he survives because he does what he has to, sometimes at a cost to others. He doesn’t think it’s a side of him that deserves to be celebrated. It feels too much like it has its place among the vengeful, cruel side of him. 

Stiles stays up until four in the morning waiting for and then watching _Thor_. Cam versions are never particularly good and this is no exception. The screen is dark and it isn’t even a telesync, so half the dialog is garbled. He writes down several key lines he can actually hear to embed them in his memory, equip himself for the day. He pulls his pillow over his face to shut up the voices that keep chattering on. There’s an awareness he doesn’t want to have, realizations he wants to avoid, and all of them point to his reactions to Derek. Seems he doesn’t have to speak out loud, but internally it’s a whole other matter. Of course, the pillow is completely useless. It’s impossible to drown out an inner monologue. 

Stiles knows what a crush feels like. Knows it like a second skin. The nervous anticipating in the noticing, the elaborate fantasy scenarios constructed over hours, days, weeks, years, the conversations never had in real life. Finding out everything possible without actually asking the questions directly. Working hard to impress for their benefit alone. Remembering that time they said hello, or laughed at that joke, or spoke to you first. Constantly watching, to wait for the one moment when they look up and for a second you meet their eyes until you need to look away or they’ll see every thought you’ve ever had --- every hope, dream, vision of them caring for you the same way you care for them. Stiles knows what it’s like to be in love with the ideal of someone rather than the reality. And there’s no way he’d discount the strength of those feelings, because they are as real as any other. There’s nothing really stupid about that kind of crush, even if there is something relatively teenaged, because most bona fide adults supposedly don’t labor under crushes, do they? They’re burdened by unrequited love; a slight, but important variation in terminology. 

But it doesn’t feel like a crush with Derek, not exactly. Not the crush he had --- will always have --- on Lydia. He doesn’t dwell on the maybes, ifs, buts and perhaps. He doesn’t spend all of his time thinking about what could be, one day far off in the future. Stiles thinks about all of their interactions, sure, but he doesn’t rewrite them to make them more exciting, more involved. He doesn’t need to. And yes, he knows that he’s idealized Derek a little, but not to the point he doesn’t want to know the truth. Because he does. He really does. He wants to know everything Derek’s willing to share and more besides. He doesn’t want a Derek constructed out of daydreams and extrapolations and his fevered imagination. He just wants Derek.

He wants Derek. _Fuck_. 

Scarier than that is the sense he has that if he went for it, he could have him. Now that the suggestion’s there, it feels way more like a possibility than Lydia ever has. Which --- it shouldn’t, he knows it shouldn’t, considering the age difference and the way they met. The Montague and Capuletness of it if Scott sees it as the betrayal it probably is. But it does. With Lydia it’s always been a struggle to get her to notice him, and then when she did notice him, to get her to see him. Stiles is aware enough now to recognize that none of that is Lydia’s fault, even though he’s complained about it loudly and often in the past. To get even more truthful with himself in the darkness of the early morning, it’s always been a struggle for him to truly see Lydia.

But that’s never really been a problem with Derek. Stiles doesn’t think he’s always been overwhelmed with joy to see Stiles, but he always has seen him anyway. All Stiles needs to remind himself of that is picture the look Derek gives him sometimes. That is not a figment of his imagination. Derek watches him as much as he watches Derek. Perhaps even more. 

He manages actual sleep some time past five thirty and is awoken again at ten by Scott literally jumping on him. Not his bed. Him. The glares do absolutely nothing to persuade Scott to turn around and run for his life, which is just rude. Stiles doesn’t mention how he’s two hours late, because he’s frankly glad he was given the reprieve.

“This mortal form has grown weak. I need sustenance!” Scott says, in perfect imitation of Chris Hemsworth, and Stiles wants to punch him, but values his knuckles too much.

“I have pop-tarts around here somewhere,” he mumbles, getting up and shrugging on a shirt.

Scott looks around. “In your bedroom?”

“Yeah. Dad stopped looking in my drawers after that time he found my lube. It’s the perfect place to hide any and all junk food from his greasy, grabby little hands.”

“Ew,” Scott says. 

“Oh please, like you don’t have your own stash.”

“Of lube or pop-tarts?”

“Either, or,” Stiles says, rummaging in his bottom desk drawer to pull out brown sugar cinnamon pop-tarts that are both his and Scott’s favorite. He also has a packet of cookies and creme, but he’s saving that for a special occasion.

“I’m not sure I want your pop-tarts now that I know where they’ve been.”

“Volstagg, who introduced you to delicacies so succulent you thought you'd died and gone to Valhalla?” Stiles asks, because he figures if he sneaks in a quote now, Scott won’t be wondering at the absence of them later. 

Scott grins, impossibly wide, and says, “you did.” 

Stiles leads the way to the kitchen, concentrating on the excitement in Scott’s voice as he predictably recounts his favorite scene in the movie. It’s not a fight scene, and that surprises Stiles for a second, until he thinks about it more and remembers that _he_ is always the one talking about awesome special effects and battle sequences, whereas Scott’s always more into the character moments --- this time, Thor smiling while eating pancakes.

“Are you all right? You seem kind of out of it,” Scott says when Stiles almost literally cries over spilled milk, mopping at it with over-emphasized grumbling. 

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“How come?” 

The wariness in Scott’s voice is palpable, and Stiles panics a little, wondering if he can smell Stiles’ new-found realization of how he feels about Derek. And while he now knows about Derek’s capabilities in this area, he never did get a definitive answer on what, exactly, Scott can sense. They’ve joked about him sensing arousal, but this? This thing that is so much more than hormonal?

“I may or may not have stayed up way past my bedtime rocking it Duke Nukem style,” Stiles lies, taking a gigantic gulp of milk from his glass to mask any obvious increases in his pulse. He’s rooted his lie in truth. He has been playing Duke Nukem the past week or so, mostly to keep his mind well occupied. He hopes that’s enough. 

Scott bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment. “How did you get an advanced version of _Duke Nukem Forever_?”

“I didn’t. You know how I feel about conventional FPS. Think older than that.”

“You don’t even mean 3D, do you?”

“Nope. _Duke Nukem II_. We’re talking 256-color VGA graphics and midi sound. Soda cans for health, turkey for food. It was amazing.” 

“But now you’re regretting it.”

“Did I ever say that?”

Falling into a bickering match with Scott settles Stiles’ nerves and gives him energy, and he mostly forgets about his early morning revelations. He doesn’t like lying to his best friend, but the alternative is worse. Scott thinks he’s sensible and Stiles has no idea how to tell him the opposite’s true. He’s had days to think about it and he thinks he’s ready to do something really foolish.

*

When Scott turns up at the depot at eight in the morning, Derek expects it to be with a warning to stay away from his friends. That Scott was putting on a friendly show for Stiles and the betas’ benefits alone and that, actually, if Derek goes near any of them outside of pack business again, Scott will rip out his throat. 

Except, Scott doesn’t come with a threat, he comes asking for advice. He shuffles into the depot with a hang-dog expression, and Derek mentally curses Stiles for the echo of laughter he hears in his mind at that phrasing. Scott sits on the couch and shrugs his shoulders forward and Derek wonders if he knows that it’s a perfect show of submission, thereby cunning and calculated, or just how Scott’s feeling. 

“You want my advice?” Derek asks again, needing to clarify, to be sure. 

“Not especially, but I think I need it,” Scott says, reassuringly recalcitrant. This puts Derek at a more even keel and he settles next to Scott, pressing his hands together.

“Is it a physical thing, or a mental thing?” Derek asks, because the first he doesn’t think he’d have any troubles with, but the second is debatable. If he can’t take care of his own mental state, he really has no idea how he’s supposed to help Scott with his.

Scott’s eye twitches. “A bit of both. I keep getting nightmares. Like the ones I had when… when Peter first started trying to call to me. I haven’t woken up anywhere but in my bed, but they’re vivid. Realistic. It’s like I can taste the---” Scott stops, twists his head around in a mockery of the shift, “the blood.”

Derek frowns, glances sharply at Scott. “How long?”

“Since the full moon.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

Scott wriggles in his spot in a way that makes Derek feel as uncomfortable as he seems. “No? I wanted your opinion.”

“It could just be part of the growing process.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“You likened the nightmares specifically to the ones you had because of Peter. Forgive me for being cautious. Are they always violent?”

“Yeah. But sometimes they’re other things too.”

“You’re going to have to go into more detail and I’m going to have to do some research.”

Scott looks at him with this odd combination of horror and gratitude, and Derek puts aside all the animosity that’s developed between them and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ll find the truth. And if it’s as bad as it seems, I’ll back you up. I know I’ve fucked up, Scott. But I’m willing to work with you, any way you need.” He quirks a lip up. It’s probably the worst ever time for his sense of humor, but the dread that’s been building for months brings out his idiotic side. “I won’t even make you roll over and beg.” 

Scott groans and rolls his eyes, but stays next to Derek and they spend the next hour talking, until he says he has to get going and Derek uses his sudden departure to head off to the library.

*

Spending days immersed in books and websites means that Wednesday comes around a lot sooner than Derek thought it would. He texts Scott anything he finds relevant, which is not much at all. He uses all of the skills Stiles showed him, pores over manuscripts and journal entries and mythology, but he’s severely lacking in anything concrete or even closely-related. He has the unerring sense that Stiles would be able to tell him where to search for answers next, but if Scott wanted Stiles to know, he would have told him, and if Stiles knew, he’d have called by now. 

Because he’s been concentrating so hard, he doesn’t feel particularly nervous when he knocks on the door, not even when there’s a crash and hollered “I’m coming.” 

But when Stiles opens said door and happens to be wearing an uncharacteristically form-fitting shirt and pair of jeans, he almost swallows his tongue. Stiles has made an effort. And Stiles and his best effort are surprisingly effective. The russet-colored shirt highlights the muscles Derek knew he had, but found easy to ignore under loose layers of clothes, the jeans emphasize the length of his legs. There’s a splash of pink high on Stiles’ cheekbones throwing his eyes into sharp relief, his lips are glistening and parted. 

Derek steps through the door, not waiting for a signal. Stiles moves away from imminent collision just in time, side-stepping with the kind of grace he only shows very rarely. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Derek says, and if he’s brusque, it’s because he has to be. The alternative is asking Stiles why he has to be so painfully tempting. A simple change of clothes shouldn’t counteract his carefully cultivated control, but it does. 

Derek follows the tinny reverberation of music that he knows has its source in Stiles’ room. Sure enough, Stiles’ laptop is playing a tango version of The Police’s _Roxanne_. The blinds are drawn and a single lamp is on, so Derek takes the wisest course of action and rectifies the lighting situation by reopening the blinds with a swift pull on the cord. The resulting sound makes an emphatic point; something akin to ‘hell no’. 

Stiles watches from the doorway, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“I’m teaching you new moves today,” Derek says, by way of an explanation he didn’t need to make. Stiles keeps smiling, adding a quirk to one of his eyebrows. Derek deliberately refrains from deciphering the look. 

Actually, the wisest course of action would be to flee, but he’s not going to do that. He always has found it difficult to back down from a show of dominance, even when pack hierarchy dictated he should. 

“I didn’t think I’d mastered the basics?”

“You haven’t, but it’s time to move on. We still need to work on your poise.”

Derek stands, arms opened in challenge, purposely does not shiver when Stiles steps into a close hold. Up until this point, Derek’s been working on ignoring his own jump in heart rate, so it comes as a shock to have Stiles’ so near, thundering against everywhere they touch. He can feel Stiles’ heartbeat through his back, the thrum of his pulse in his palm. It’s faster than it should be, but steady, constant, firm. 

Derek starts stepping as soon as Stiles maintains his hold correctly. It doesn’t take as long as it has on other occasions, and while Stiles hasn’t mastered everything he’s been taught so far, he isn’t terrible either. When he’s relaxed and fluid, he’s almost good. The energy he brings to the dance is compelling and Derek wants to tell him to keep that up for lacrosse, but can’t find the right words. 

There’s silence between them as they dance across the increased yet still small floor space of Stiles’ room. The music switches to a tango beat that sounds electronically engineered and Derek wonders if this is Stiles’ revenge for decades’ old cassette tapes of old-school tango tracks. It works, strangely, and the music makes the room feel far more sensual than it has before, even though the sunlight streaming through the windows is glaring as opposed to romantic. 

The more they dance, the more Derek wants to pull Stiles closer, press against him until they’re skintight. It’s the worst kind of the compulsion. The kind he knows he’d have a solid argument against if only he could think straight. It’s a relief when Stiles starts speaking, even though Derek’s reticent. The distraction will at least prevent him from wanting to put his hands on Stiles’ ass and grind against him.

“I can’t believe you used to do this with your sister.”

“It wasn’t exactly like this,” Derek admits, glancing momentarily at Stiles to see the cheekiest grin he has ever witnessed directed his way before. And that includes any and all of Erica’s expressions.

Stiles smooths his expression out when he notices Derek looking at him. “What was she like? Laura?”

“Like any other sibling.” 

“Okay, but I don’t have any siblings, so I need details,” Stiles says, mockingly reasonable. 

“She was bossy and ego-maniacal, but also generous. She took an almost sick joy in sharing the things she loved with the people she loved, so my cousins and I were subject to all her favorite TV shows and films, no matter how much we protested. She always teased me, even after the fire, when she was scared and confused and felt like it was her responsibility to take care of us both.” 

Derek drifts off, remembering Laura’s taunts before she left to come back to Beacon Hills. She warned him to feed himself on more than mac and cheese, claiming she’d know the truth according to the scent in their small kitchenette. She hadn’t expected to be gone more than three weeks. That’s why Derek followed her. 

“Dude, you can’t leave me hanging. What would she tease you about?”

“Everything. From my voice to my hair to my, and I quote, ‘melodramatic entrances into rooms’. She thought everything I did was funny. I was her kid brother, you know?”

“I don’t, but I wish I did,” Stiles says, muted. “You miss her.”

“I miss everyone,” Derek corrects. “Even Peter. Not the monster he became, but the uncle he was, before.” Derek can’t seem to make his voice go any louder. Thinking about Laura and Peter makes his chest ache, especially in light of Scott’s recent revelations. Everything’s far too close for comfort, so he does what he intended to do before Stiles started speaking. He gives his own display of dominance. “You seem about ready for dipping,” he says, brightening his tone.

“What do you mean I’m ready for di--- holy shit, Derek!” The air escapes Stiles in one swift gust as Derek bends him over, hand tight against his upper back. The dip’s lower than it technically should be, but he really doesn’t care.

Stiles’ eyes go comically wide and Derek thinks he’d be crushing his hand if the whole werewolf thing didn’t come into play. He realizes for the first time just how large and strong Stiles’ hands are, how well they fit against his own. He swings Stiles back upright with a raise of his eyebrow. 

“Cruel,” Stiles says with a wheeze. “A little warning wouldn’t go astray.”

“But what would be the fun in that? Next time, it’ll work better if you lock your left leg around my right leg.”

“So I can send us both toppling to the ground, right.” Stiles nods viciously, nearly knocking their heads together.

“You have to know that wouldn’t happen.”

“Wolf’s confident, I see. Overly confident. My lack of balance and coordination has its ways.”

Derek sets them around the room again, this time giving Stiles a countdown to the dip. They’re not entirely maintaining a perfect hold, Stiles is looking directly at him, when he should be looking to the side. But it’s better than before, so much so that Derek sustains the dip for longer than necessary. Does so until Stiles surges up and kisses him, shocking him into movement. Derek rears back, but rather than break the connection, Stiles follows him. 

His lips are soft and the right kind of wet --- the kind that Derek wants to chase. Stiles kisses like he talks, all frenetic energy and vaguely mocking tone, like he has so much to communicate, but doesn’t trust that Derek will listen. And he shouldn’t, he absolutely shouldn’t, but he wants to anyway. Derek moves until he’s crowding Stiles up against the bedroom door, pressing his fingers against the fine hairs at the back of his neck. There’s a soft moan when Derek lets his other hand travel down Stiles’ side, finally settling at his hip. The promise of the muscles that skated beneath his palm makes Derek give in to a shudder.

Derek deepens the kiss, licking into Stiles’ mouth the way he’s been fantasizing about for months. It’s so good, something he’s _never_ had before and he can’t stop himself from changing position, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone. He angles him slightly, cradles his jaw. Stiles’ fingers twist into Derek’s shirt and instead of pushing him away, Derek hitches into it, tilting his head for a second to catch his breath. This is his chance to step away again and jump out the window --- the rational decision, though it sounds anything but. 

Derek resumes kissing Stiles, tasting his salt and his sweet, in turn opening himself up for Stiles’ delectation. And even though it’s by far the worst, it’s also the best thing Derek’s ever allowed himself to have.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles adjusts position, sighing as Derek’s stubble rasps against his chin. Derek moves too, continuing to kiss him. It’s so easy to rub his fingers under Derek’s shirt and revel in the warm skin there, trace along the nubs of his spine. His brain shuts down for a few minutes, no thoughts running through his mind except how good it feels to be pressed up against Derek. He doesn’t care about how uncomfortable the wooden door is behind him, or the way he accidentally knocks teeth with Derek once or twice in his enthusiasm. Stiles cares about the moan Derek makes when he nips his lower lip, how his thigh insinuates itself between his, the way Derek’s blunt nails scratch against his scalp. 

Derek hitches his left leg up, pressing tighter into the trunk of his body. He easily takes the weight and Stiles discovers he has no desire to stop him. He’s perfectly okay with hooking his knee above Derek’s hip, digging the heel of his sneaker into Derek’s lower back. Having Derek want him like this is amazing. He has all of Derek’s focus and that’s intense under normal circumstances --- but like this, with Derek’s fingers digging into his thigh just at the point he continues to notice, with his tongue doing something Stiles hasn’t even dreamed about --- he’s overwhelmed.

And it’s not like everything’s been leading up to this, because Stiles has enjoyed his time with Derek for what it’s been, but that doesn’t mean that this doesn’t feel like a culmination of every time Derek put his arms around him. The part of him that’s still capable of more than embarrassingly loud moaning is congratulating himself on reading the signals right, on taking the chance. Derek wants this, wants him. It’s mutual attraction that has them grappling at one another, Stiles twisting his fingers in Derek’s shirt and Derek rolling his hips forward. This isn’t some fairy tale he’s concocted to make himself happier with his life, an elaborate alternate universe inside his head that he tells to get to sleep at night. He’s actually here with someone who is all kinds of things he never even knew to hope for. Derek, in all of his surprisingly witty, impressively intelligent, broken but good-hearted glory, wants to hold him up against his door and kiss him in the kind of way it’s obvious he’s not just doing it for his own gratification. Because Derek’s not taking more than Stiles can give, not being overly vicious or cruel. He’s not tender, but he isn’t forcing anything either. 

It might be the most idiotic thing he’s ever done, but it feels ridiculously good. 

Stiles grinds up against Derek once, twice, experimentally. What with the kissing and Derek’s hands and Derek’s body, he’s more than half-hard. He thinks his enthusiasm must be making up for his lack of experience, because Derek’s hands tighten and he kisses deeper, longer, filthier. Stiles likes to pride himself on an active imagination, but he still doesn’t think he’s ever gotten to this, the full sensory experience of Derek’s confident, certain touches and swipes of his tongue. Stiles tries to mimic his movements, but he discovers he’s better off doing whatever he wants, like pull on Derek’s lower lip with his teeth and press his fingers below the waistband of his jeans. Derek moans at that, throaty and rough in a way his speaking voice rarely is, and Stiles wants to hear that noise again. 

He presses Derek back with one hand on his shoulder and Derek goes with it easily, like this was to be expected. When his left foot’s back on the floor again he realizes how sore he was getting. Derek’s eyes burn through him with a look that Stiles can’t decode. It could be anger, it could be contrition --- it’s a mystery.

Derek’s mouth is reddened, but set in a firm line. His lips don’t look as plush as they felt against his own. His eyebrows are lowered in something that Stiles might have called a scowl if he wasn’t well acquainted with Derek’s scowls and therefore knew this had neither the ferocity nor the majesty. Stiles can tell Derek’s waiting for him to say something, but he’s not going to. He could, he thinks, he could question Derek, ask him if he’s going to turn around and plead temporary insanity when Stiles next brings this up. But he really doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to break into the silence, to fill this gap with words, because this is one of those times when not knowing is better --- when his curiosity is tamped deep down inside.

Stiles continues applying pressure to Derek’s chest, steps forward with his whole body to ply him backwards. Derek raises an eyebrow, but moves with Stiles, gradually, eyes not leaving his face. The light from the window highlights the color of those eyes --- a startling combination of gold and green, and Stiles is a little transfixed. Having all of Derek’s concentration like this makes his blood rush faster in his ears and it’s hard not to do more with his hands, not to stretch and flail and tap against anything within range. 

And then they’re at his bed. His heart’s thundering in his throat and he doesn’t think he’s remembered to breathe for the past thirty seconds, but Stiles pushes Derek down and climbs up on top of him, capturing his lips in another kiss. Derek grunts, but doesn’t stop him. Derek’s arms wrap around him once more as he half-crouches. His legs are tight by Derek’s hips, his upper body craned down. Derek’s solid and warm beneath him and his lips are so soft. 

Stiles kisses him all the things he hasn’t yet found the courage to say; all his gratitude, all his hope. He thinks his brand of earnestness probably comes across more as him being a horny teenager, but hey, that fits too. He grinds down with a fluid roll and there’s that sound from Derek’s lips again --- all kinds of addictive. His breath stutters in his chest when hands move to cradle his ass, when he’s pushed up with the force of Derek canting his hips. 

It’s overly warm now and Stiles is way past the point of having any inhibitions so he sits up straight and pulls off his shirt. Derek stares at him with such intensity that Stiles can’t help but shudder, and then flips them suddenly enough he’s momentarily dizzied and dazed. It really seems to take no time at all before Derek’s nuzzling into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, kissing and nipping a path down his torso. It makes Stiles huff out a laugh, makes him squirm. One of his hands settles on Derek’s head, threading through his dark hair. He doesn’t push or direct, he simply holds, but that’s good, that’s great, when Derek licks around his navel. He has something to grip onto. Stiles wishes he could babble, to distract himself enough from not coming in his pants, but it appears that Derek brushing over his dick has led to his idiosyncrasies abandoning him. 

When Derek looks back up at him, all Stiles can see is a thin ring of green around large black pupils. Derek has one hand resting on his thigh, the other gripping the bedclothes. Stiles watches his hand clench and unclench, the deep breaths he takes before his rises up over him again and mashes their lips together with nothing resembling elegance, but everything resembling need. Stiles thinks this may have been Derek’s attempt to slow things down. It’s an abject failure. Stiles has started to rut against the strong line of Derek’s thigh between his, and he really doesn’t want to stop. 

So it’s positively cruel when Derek goes still before wrenching his mouth away. 

“What? Why stop there?” Stiles asks, bucking up against Derek reflexively. 

“Your dad’s home,” Derek whispers, frown lowering until he looks almost demonic. 

“That can’t be right,” Stiles says, frowning himself as Derek levers away. He goes to the window, and sure enough, the cruiser’s in the driveway. He has no brain power left for anything but banality. “Wow. My dad’s home.”

He swallows and glances at Derek, who’s standing suspiciously still and pale. He scratches at the back of his neck as he bends over and picks up his shirt. Winces as he slips it over his head. 

Stiles spreads his hands out apologetically. “I should go say hi.”

“I should just go,” Derek replies.

Stiles wants, desperately, to make this normal, because everything’s awkward and that’s the opposite of how he’d like things to continue. He steps forward and rubs a hand down Derek’s arm. He’s beyond happy when Derek doesn’t flinch away from the touch.

“I’ll swing by the depot with my lacrosse gear tomorrow,” he says, not framing it like a question because he doesn’t want the rejection.

Derek nods, curtly. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and the last time Stiles saw that expression on his face he was half-dead from wolfsbane poisoning. He just about stops himself from leaning forward and kissing Derek again, goes to his door and doesn’t turn around when he hears his window sliding open. 

Stiles thunders down the stairs and tries to screw his face into an expression of joy at his dad being home. It’s not his fault he has the worst timing in the history of ever. How was he to know? He hopes he didn’t know. It’d creep him out if the truth is his dad’s psychic and could sense his son getting a boner thanks to wolfy interference. He almost doesn’t put it past him. But Stiles knows it’s difficult for his dad to even get ten minutes to spare, so he wraps him up in a hug and asks if he wants a coffee. Doesn’t point out that it’ll be decaf. When it turns out his dad swapped shifts so he could spend the whole evening with Stiles, he quashes every last feeling of regret.

Maybe this is for the best anyway. He and Derek have a few hours to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve been given the space to talk. Stiles wonders if he’ll be able to when the time comes.

*

He winds up at the house again. Walks through the charred remains, settles next to where he buried Peter. He tells himself it’s to check up on the ground not being disturbed, but it’s just one more in a long line of lies. He still notices that the floorboards are in place, though. That’s a consolation. There’s a several months’ worth patina of dust all over them, which lends credence to the idea they haven’t been touched. Or broken through. 

He buried Peter beneath his favorite room --- the library. Peter was a keen student of folklore and legend. He believed in the magic of being a werewolf far more than Derek had ever gotten the impression his parents did. He’d tell Derek, Laura, Gemma and anyone else who’d want to listen all about the ancient rituals and beliefs of Hale generations gone by, frame them as elaborate stories he made up on the spot. He’d only stop when Gemma’s dad, (Uncle Sebastian, his mom’s fully human brother), would point out it was bed time and usually it would be a pause rather than the end. The stories would continue, unfaltering where they had left off. As Derek grew older he read a lot and he found the genesis of a lot of the tales in the books that had lined the shelves here. 

If anyone would have the knowledge and ability to come back from the dead, it would be Peter. He taught Derek about wolfsbane rope and the importance of spirals, about why hunters either burned, decapitated, or sliced werewolves in half; not because he thought Derek would ever actually have to know, simply as a curiosity. The Hales had been a long established pack that had demonstrated over a hundred years that they were capable of maintaining control during a shift. No Hales had been directly involved in the death of a human in recorded memory. Derek’s completely human uncle and aunt and cousins lived with them, would occasionally _run_ with them. It’s why Derek had become complacent. It had never occurred to him that anyone would want to harm a family that was harmless. It wasn’t a mistake he was ever going to make again. 

Most of the books that had once been held in this room had burned to ash, but Derek had discovered a few that had either been in the basement, or had only charred around the binding. They were at the depot and he’d read them several times, but had seen nothing about reincarnation or reanimation or splitting the soul from the body, which is what he presumed Peter must have done if Scott’s dreams aren’t paranoia.

He doesn’t believe that Scott’s dreams are paranoia. They’re too detailed, for one. He trusts Scott’s conviction, for another. He hasn’t told him, and probably never will, but Scott did something remarkable in resisting Peter’s impulsion. Peter had successfully used some of his tricks on Derek, and though that was more psychological rather than instinctual and therefore harder to shake off, Scott’s still impressive for having fought back. 

Scott says he sees the moon, claws, blood spilling and floorboards tearing into shreds. Derek sits in what used to be his family’s library and rests his head on his knees, trying not to think about what that means. Trying not to think about all of his mistakes. He told Scott he’d fucked up, and that’s true, but it isn’t like he’s learned from it. He keeps making similar errors, and even if the outcome will change, even if different people will get hurt, there will still be a victim. 

*

Derek’s five hours deep into searching for anything related to resurrection magic, with a hundred pages of print outs from the Beacon Hills library when Stiles shows up. It might be time to see if there’s any way to get internet access in the depot. 

Stiles is all zig and zag as he plants his lacrosse gear on the ground, nervous kinetic energy thrumming through him like he’s a wind-up toy ready to be released. His cheekbones are flushed pink and his lower lip looks puffier than Derek’s used to, like he’s been chewing on it. Mentally picturing that has Derek rolling his shoulders, stretching his legs. He puts the print outs away carefully, before Stiles can come and look at what they’re about. Though, really, he thinks that Stiles would be helpful in deciding what’s vital information, what’s extraneous, and what’s pure bullshit. 

Boyd’s somewhere in the depot, finishing off his homework, claiming that he’d do it at home, but it’s too loud with his little sister and her friends preparing for a sleep-over. He’s listening to music, something with a lot of percussion, and Derek’s not going to be surprised if he asks to stay the night. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, breathy in the same way he was after Derek kissed him senseless yesterday, eyes bright and questioning. 

Against all of his better judgement, Derek steps forward, slides a hand over Stiles’ jaw and kisses him hello. Stiles tastes literally and figuratively sweet; artificially flavored milkshake on his lips and promise wrapped around his tongue. Derek savors it, pulls back only when he’s worried night will fall before they get going. The smile Stiles gives him in return is small and pleased and gut-punching. 

“We should go to the lacrosse field,” Derek says, leading the way. 

“Great idea. I wanna show off my new wrist action.” 

Stiles is shameless as he says it, laughter ringing through his tone. Derek’s far enough ahead he knows Stiles won’t see his amused response.

Stiles really has gotten miles better at lacrosse since they started training together, more than Derek would have anticipated. He can be shaky occasionally, but things seem to be clicking better now, he’s using more than one of his skills at any one time. He combines his speed and agility to dodge an attack, almost slipping over at one stage, but sliding his feet correctly to prevent it. He uses his quick thinking and cunning to evade capture. He scores three goals in succession and Derek’s not going easy on him, he fiercely acts as goalie, but to no avail, Stiles has clearly been studying strategy. Derek purposely blocks the next ten goals, but it takes actual concentration to do so.

“All right,” Stiles crows when it gets dark enough they need to pack up. “If I can nearly beat a solitary werewolf, I may just have a shot against an entire lacrosse team.”

Derek smiles again, rolling his eyes. Stiles sees him do it this time and his face contorts into six different expressions, all of them joyous.

“Don’t forget you’ll have a team of your own. With werewolves in it.”

“Dude, way to harsh my squee. For a second there, I actually thought I was important.”

“Way to h--- . What does that mean? Stiles, that wasn’t English.” 

“I think the meaning’s obvious considering the context.”

“No.”

Derek’s about to explain further, but his words get swallowed up by Stiles’ lips. It’s good having Stiles’ body against his, strong fingers against the back of his neck, firm thighs bracketing his own. There’s nothing casual in the way Stiles kisses him, nothing anonymous. He’s already learned what Derek likes most, has tilted his head perfectly to ensure they don’t mash noses or get too sloppy. The kiss isn’t demanding, or overly insistent. Stiles kisses him simply because he wants to, not because he expects anything else.

Since the age of sixteen nothing in his life has come easily. Nothing has brought him happiness. Nothing has helped him forget for more than a minute that this is all his fault. Until Stiles. And he knows he’s being selfish, he knows he’s being unfair, that it’s fraudulent and manipulative and iniquitous. But he doesn’t think he has the power to turn Stiles away.

*

Derek goes back to his print outs when he’s back at the depot, sprawled out on one of the mattresses in the far corner. He skims the last page he read before when Boyd comes and stands at the foot of the makeshift bed, arms crossed. 

“What you’re doing is wrong,” Boyd says, enunciating clearly as if he thinks Derek won’t understand him any other way. 

Derek actually doesn’t, in that moment, understand what Boyd’s saying.

“You think you’ll really be building a solid pack if everything’s based on lies and deception?” Boyd continues, not picking up on Derek’s confusion. “You think Scott will ever forgive you for screwing over his best friend?”

Derek stands, breath racketing through his chest. Now they’re on the same page. He wants to tell Boyd he’s misconstrued the situation, that he’s the one who’s wrong, it’s all a misunderstanding. 

But it’s not. Boyd’s right. And Boyd is so much stronger than him. Won’t find it hard to tell Stiles the truth of the matter. Won’t be swayed by the look in Stiles’ eyes, or the twitch of his fingers, or the tremor along his spine. He won’t crack under his own weakness and vanity and self-interest.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Derek asks, injecting as much smug hostility into his tone that he has the energy to muster. 

Boyd’s answering expression is disgust, pure and simple. “I’m going to stop you before you go too far.”


	14. Chapter 14

It’s rare that Stiles eats lunch by himself, but he’s doing that right now, because he kind of wants to avoid Scott forever. He’s showered three times since last seeing Derek, but Scott’s gotten scarily good at using all of his senses. It isn’t that he’s ashamed. It’s just not a conversation he wants right now. He can already imagine the accusation and horror and --- he just wants a few days to enjoy this new-found thing --- recrimination and justification can come later, maybe when there’s something more to justify. 

He knows that it would be more about protection for Scott, that he’d think he was preventing a huge mistake, but Stiles equally knows that he has to have the freedom to make his own mistakes, if that’s what this is. Stiles loves Scott, but he never seems to keep in mind that other people wouldn’t want to be held under the same conditions that he doesn’t want to be held. Scott isn’t the only person in the world to rail against authority, the only one who’ll point out that something is his choice.

So Stiles is sitting on the bleachers, eating a packet of chips he picked up at the gas station on the way to school, idly swinging his legs, because he’s used to talking during lunch break and needs to burn off excess energy somehow. He’s thinking about the test he has coming up in Econ and how he’s going to manfully act like he hasn’t been ignoring Scott all day, while continuing to evade him. He’s also musing about how strange it is that you can grow to like something you previously thought you hated. He actually thinks he _enjoys_ tangoing, now. He’s remembering when he and Derek danced nearby, with the clouds threatening rain and the grass smelling damp and musky.

There’s another ten minutes of break left and he’s seriously bored, wishing he’d remembered to charge his cell phone or bring the mp3 player his grandma bought him a couple of years ago. He’s alone enough at home, he doesn’t really need to keep it up at school. It’s obvious he’s going to have to confront the situation sooner rather than later. 

He doesn’t see Boyd approach and if anyone asked him, he’d say it was because stealth was one of Boyd’s major strengths, but truthfully it may also have been because he was wondering whether or not to drop in at the depot after school. Boyd sits next to him, but doesn’t look in his direction. 

“Is it okay if I talk to you privately?” Boyd asks. Stiles gestures to the open space around them, but knows that Boyd’s trying to key him into this becoming a sensitive discussion. Something about his tone has Stiles stopping still, trying to tamp down the flutter of dread in his stomach.

He nods, even though Boyd’s attention is in the opposite direction to him, back toward the school. 

Boyd must have heard him, because he starts speaking. “Derek’s been playing you. He wants Scott in his pack and he’s willing to go to any lengths to ensure that’ll happen. He doesn’t care about you, he just thought getting to you was a good way to get to Scott.”

That hadn’t been what Stiles had been expecting. He didn’t really know what he’d been expecting except for something bad, something wolf related. Not this. He goes over the words again, picks them apart, tries to puzzle through Boyd’s motivation in coming here. Stiles isn’t simply speechless --- he’s expressionless, gestureless and thoughtless as well. All forms of communication, both internal and external, have been shut down for repairs.

“You’re lying,” Stiles says, after a moment. 

Boyd turns at that, finally looking at Stiles. His eyes are soft and pitying. “Why would I lie?”

Stiles sucks in a deep breath, clenches his fists. His words tumble over themselves. “Maybe you don’t like the idea of your Alpha devoting his time to a human? Maybe you think it’ll weaken the pack? Maybe you hate me and just don’t want me around?”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Boyd says calmly. “Stiles, I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to the bite. Derek told me enough that I could make an informed decision. But he hasn’t been doing that with you. He hasn’t told you the truth. He asked Erica to seduce you first, but then realized she had genuine affection for you, so he took on the task instead. You’re nothing but a pawn.”

Stiles can feel his nails digging into his palm, can’t stop shaking his knee from side-to-side. “I don’t need to listen to any more of this,” he says, thinking it’ll come out as a yell, but it’s whisper quiet. 

He gets up, grabs his backpack, storms off the field. He doesn’t look back and Boyd doesn’t follow him. He walks with determination etched in every muscle in his body, jerking forward stiffly, erratically, far away from the school. He walks and walks and doesn’t care that his Jeep’s parked out the front of the school, doesn’t care that he’s going to miss Econ, doesn’t care about anything other than escape.

*

Stiles lies in his bed with his head buried under his pillow. He’s stripped the bed bare, flung the sheets and comforter into the laundry basket, because he does not want to deal with the stench at this moment. With touching something Derek’s touched. He’s grabbed his sleeping bag and a spare blanket from his closet and is cocooned in a tight, warm swaddle. It’s not exactly the most rational thing he’s ever done, but fuck it, it feels safe and that’s what matters. 

He hasn’t been able to stop Boyd’s words reverberating around his head. It’s gotten dark and still he’s without respite. Sometimes the words slow down, sometimes they speed up, but, importantly, they seem to get louder with each repetition. It makes him want to scream, rage, throw everything he has against the wall, split the world in two and fling himself into the earth’s core. He can’t do that. It’s depressing how little he can do. He’s been deluding himself over days and weeks and months, _Derek’s been playing him, he’s nothing but a pawn._

And he still doesn’t believe it.

Stiles keeps thinking about the time he’s spent with Derek, trying to pinpoint all the artifice. There are a few things that jog and jar in his memory, like Derek teasing him in the library, and the initial suggestion of tango, but beyond that… beyond that there’s his foolish teenaged heart attempting to defend, substantiate and validate every look Derek gave him, every conversation they had. 

He keeps wanting to ask the question that if Derek was attempting to seduce him, why didn’t he try harder? What was with the month of no contact? When and where did Derek acquire the skills to pull off an Oscar-worthy performance? 

It doesn’t make any sense.

Stiles groans into his mattress again, pathetically glad his dad’s not back until six in the morning. He texted Scott that he’d gone home with a vomiting bug so he wouldn’t worry when he didn’t show for Econ and then left his Jeep at school. The landline’s off the hook, his phone is switched off. Stiles continues his plan of effortlessly impersonating a bed burrito, head aching, stomach twisting, eyes scrunched shut. His legs twitch occasionally, of their own volition, as if they want to get up and take him to the depot, make him go through this with Derek face to face. 

He should have known he wouldn’t make it through the night uninterrupted. He’s actually managed to drift off to sleep when there’s a loud thump from the stairs. Stiles peeks up from under his pillow and narrows his eyes. Another thump. He grabs one of the trophies from his shelf and creeps toward his door, brandishing it over his shoulder, ready to strike. His sweats are low on his hips and his t-shirt’s sagging to the side, on his shoulder. It would be just his luck to get murdered in the middle of the evening. His life does happen to suck in many and varied ways.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice calls from outside the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Stiles drops his trophy with a clank. Scott opens the door slowly, peering around the corner and immediately looking toward the bed. He startles when he sees that Stiles is right in front of him.

“How’d you get in?” Stiles asks, resigned, shifting to settle on the edge of his bed. It takes a lot of willpower not to curl up and burrow under the blanket and sleeping bag again.

Scott frowns at him, rubs at his arm. “You know I have a key, just like you do for my place.”

“You never usually use it.”

Scott shrugs. “I like to adapt in different circumstances.” He sighs, plants himself in Stiles’ computer chair. He sits forward with his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin. “You wanna talk about what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to anyway. You were avoiding me all day. You skipped school. And even though this is the grossest thing I will ever say; I checked and you don’t smell like barf.”

Stiles laughs, the stress and anguish compounding until he has to break somehow, and this is it. His chest hurts and his cheeks are sore. Stiles rubs his hand all over his face and looks Scott dead in the eye.

“I may have lied to you about the whole Derek thing. About how nothing would happen,” Stiles says, hunching his shoulders. Scott nods, waits. He has a quietly determined air about him, like he’s made a decision he’s going to do whatever he can to minimize Stiles’ damage, even if it goes against his natural inclination to react with more force. Stiles could hug him, he really could. “But it turns out, you would’ve been right in warning me away, because Boyd tells me Derek engineered everything so that I’d do whatever he wanted.”

There’s a dangerous edge to Scott’s voice as he studies Stiles’ face. “Did he force you into doing something you didn’t want to do?” At Stiles’ ‘no’, he continues. “How far did it go?”

“Far enough that my pride and ego are wounded but it’s not… you don’t have to worry about whatever kind of stuff you’re worrying about. I just, I feel like an idiot, you know? I don’t know how I could have believed he’d ever actually want me.”

Scott looks disquieted. He wriggles in his seat, his brow furrowed. “You’re not an idiot for thinking that. The way he looks at you? That’s not fake.” It looks like it pains him to say it and Stiles figures Scott would prefer to be in almost any other conversation. 

“I know you have my back and you’re trying to boost my self-esteem and all, but I’m not sure that’s helping.”

“I know it doesn’t, but it’s true.” Scott tips further back into his chair. “I’m not even slightly surprised that Derek had ulterior motives for what he did, but when it comes to physical attraction, he’s been putting out a scent and an aura for months. His heart even speeds up when you’re nearby.”

Stiles processes that, rolls it around in his mind, until it knocks up against a hundred other thoughts. “I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse,” he says, haltingly. 

Scott goes and sits next to Stiles, wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. He rocks Stiles from side-to-side. It’s moments like these that Stiles is reminded how they’ve always stuck together, how Scott’s the brother he never had. One of the many reasons today is the worst is the realization that all of the positives that had been building for Scott have now been compromised. He won’t want to work with the pack anymore, even though it’s obviously been great for him.

“You wanna watch shit blow up on your laptop or your TV?”

“Is there a non-shit-blowing-up option?”

“Nope.”

“Laptop, then. You can be the beef in my bed burrito.”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “You’re disgusting.” He winces, corrects himself. “I mean, you’re a total catch, and adorable as hell. But you’re also revolting.”

“I know,” Stiles says. He scratches his fingers over his scalp and then makes grabby hands as Scott gets up and hauls over his laptop. “I’m kinda surprised you’re not off avenging on my behalf. Please understand, I don’t want you to, because I like you alive, and it’s totally not worth the effort, but I’m shocked nonetheless.”

“You need me right now,” Scott says, plainly. “And I can commit wholesale murder at any time, day or night.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Scott knocks into him, hard enough that Stiles thinks he doesn’t know his own strength. He grabs the blanket and then hogs it, only relinquishing half when Stiles flicks him in the ear. They watch shit blow up and it’s an awesome diversion, up until the moment Stiles’ mind begins to wander and he finds himself dissecting Scott’s words with the same obsessive repetition he did Boyd’s. 

*

Boyd hasn’t spoken to him since arriving from school, but there’s anger there, seething just under the surface. The only reason Boyd’s at the depot is because Erica and Isaac refuse to leave. Derek’s been listening in to their conversations and Boyd has tried to get them to go with him on four separate occasions. But Erica’s practicing her defensive moves and insists she needs room to train, Isaac has been spending more time at the depot anyway, alternating between helping Erica and meditating. None of the betas talk to him much beyond asking for a word of advice on a move or querying what he wants to eat. That’s all right, because he thinks he may have found a ritual that will explain what Peter may have done. He’s glad for having discovered it, but worried by the suggestion of what’s happened and what he has to do to stop worse coming to pass. He’s angry that he can’t give the text he’s reading his full concentration. It’s a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions and none of them fit well together, they leave him feeling jagged and twitchy.

He wants to know how Boyd’s talk with Stiles went. He wants to have seen the reaction so that he’s assured Stiles is okay. All the evidence so far is pointing to that not being the case. He shouldn’t really be surprised. He remembers the sting of betrayal, the realization that he was foolish enough to believe Kate. But Stiles --- Stiles isn’t to blame in this situation at all. He did nothing wrong except trust _him_. 

Thinking of that has Derek stretching where he sits, wanting to go for a run. There’s a kind of dark comedy to that that he’s going to ignore.

*

It’s early morning that sees the arrival of Scott at the depot. The sun isn’t up, yet. The air is chill. The betas all crashed the night, curling up on a couple of old mattresses, in the train car and the corner. Derek hasn’t slept, just kept reading and trying to find other references to the ritual he’s now almost positive Peter performed before he died. He should have gone for that run and not come back. He rises to greet Scott, a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue.

Scott saunters up to him and punches him in the face. Derek doesn’t dodge or block it, but the pain is minimal. 

“That’s for Stiles,” Scott says, face contorted in a scowl. He punches Derek again, the blow glancing off Derek’s nose. “And that’s for me.”

Derek rolls his eyes, grabs both Scott’s wrists and holds them up. He’s not as rough with it was he would have been in the past, but that’s because he gets why Scott’s actually attacking him this time. Scott struggles in his grasp, but he tightens his grip in such a way all he does is swing closer into Derek’s body.

“Simmer down,” Derek bites out. “If you had any sense, I wouldn’t have to resort to these actions to ensure you spend time with the pack. It’s by insisting you keep yourself separate from the only people who could help you that shit like Peter coming back from the dead to screw with you happens.”

“You mean your uncle? The lying, manipulative creep?” Scott counters, eyes going dark. “And by these actions you’re referring to the molestation of my best friend?” He uses Derek’s grip on him as leverage to raise his legs and kick Derek in the chest. Derek stumbles, lets go. 

“I never---” Derek starts, but can’t continue. It’s an accusation he can’t actually refute. “Stiles will be fine.”

“He isn’t equipped for your games, Derek. Behind all the sarcasm and deflecting and insistence he can run with wolves, Stiles is fragile.”

“Stiles is a _hell_ of a lot stronger than you give him credit for,” Derek snarls, then snaps his mouth shut. 

Erica, Isaac and Boyd are all lurking on the outskirts of his periphery, watching the conversation. Derek’s a little surprised none of them have made a move to intervene. 

Scott’s eyes widen and he blinks a couple of times. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if he’s listening for something far away. “Oh.”

Derek’s on the back-foot. “What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. It’s an exclamation made when someone figures something out.”

Derek’s not dealing with Scott’s shit today. He prowls closer, flexing his shoulders. He doesn’t want to swing his first punch, but if he can provoke Scott enough again, maybe he’ll get to justifiably retaliate. “Hilarious, Scott. In this particular case, what does it signify?”

“You didn’t do all of this to get me in your pack. That’s how it started, sure, but that’s not what it’s become.”

Derek snorts. “That’s what you think?”

Scott’s cocky as he stares Derek down. “Weirdly, yeah.” He gives the ghost of a laugh. “Wow. Hidden depths.”

Derek half-shifts. “Get out of here, now,” he warns, low. “If you wanna be an omega, go right ahead. But don’t be surprised if you find yourself dead within the next three months. You have no idea what’s coming.”

Scott, surprisingly, follows his instruction and begins moving toward the door. “Neither do you,” he says as his parting shot. “You don’t even know what’s happening in the moment, let alone in the future.” 

Derek restrains himself from either chasing Scott out of the building for good or punching the wall. As he goes back to his print outs, he can hear the betas whispering, with Erica and Boyd sounding particularly heated. He tunes out their words, choosing to focus on the description of preventing a resurrection instead.

*

Stiles is eating lunch alone again on Monday, but it’s accidental as opposed to deliberate. He was forced to make up his Econ test during his actual lunch break so he used his charms and wiles on Delores in the cafeteria and begged her to save him a slice of lasagne for his free period. It’s good lasagne, probably because it feels illicit. Stiles reads as he eats. For the first time since starting High School he’s behind in his required reading for English. He spent most of the weekend helping his dad in the limited capacity his dad would allow him, and the rest with a careful, attentive and somewhat nervous Scott.

“You know how we all have different strengths and weaknesses? How Scott’s equally perceptive and oblivious and you’re both crazy smart and a total tool?” Erica says, sitting down across from him and resting her chin on her forearms. 

Stiles closes his book and waits, knowing that Erica’s going somewhere with this. He’s learning when to listen to Erica and when to discount her words as idle teasing. He doesn’t think this is mockery, though it’s masked that way. 

“Do you know what my main weakness was when I was first turned?” Erica asks, watching him carefully.

“You had trouble finding your anchor,” Stiles answers, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I did. When it comes to the bonus extras we got, Boyd’s strong and agile and a good strategist. What he hasn’t gotten is the automatic ability to distinguish scent. There are all kinds of things you can learn about a person by how they smell. What they had for breakfast, approximately how many times they’ve jacked off in the last 24 hour period, whether or not they’re in love.”

Stiles taps against the table, expels a breath. “What are you saying, Erica?”

“Derek’s my anchor. He keeps me human because he’s the most human person I know well. And that can be a good thing. But it can also be terrible.” Erica stares at him like she’s looking through him. “Food for thought.” 

She gets up and leaves as quickly as she came. Stiles stares after her. All he’s had the last few days are thoughts. Ones that could either be self-destructive or life affirming; he can’t tell. Even before Erica came and spoke to him he thought he’d figured out what was going on with Derek. 

He needs to decide if he’s going to go with his instincts or conclude he’s falling into a trap of wish fulfillment. At this point, he doesn’t really have anything left to lose.

*

The chalk keeps flaking between his fingers and he’s snapped four different sticks already. Derek curses, flattens his hand against the timber flooring to get more purchase as he etches out the symbol in the book he stole from the library. It had been in the ‘no loans’ section so he forewent courtesy and headed straight for theft. He’ll need someone else to complete the symbol, someone non-werewolf, to sprinkle it with a mixture of mountain ash and wolfsbane. He’s not sure how he’s going to arrange that just yet. Maybe he can convince Deaton to do it, but there’s a reason he never went to Deaton in the first place. 

Footfall sounds close to the house and Derek springs up, turns round. He’s figuring out the scent when Stiles walks through the door. That’s the icing on the cake, really. All Derek needs is Stiles’ anger and hatred. He is the luckiest man alive. There’s a muffled yell and then Stiles is stumbling into the room, mouth wide open in disgust. He must have walked through the spider webs leading to the back of the house by mistake. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Derek asks, resigned. He doesn’t go for hostile, doesn’t sneer. Stiles looks like he hasn’t had much sleep. His shirt’s wrinkled and frayed at the bottom as if he’s been worrying it. 

“You know why I’m here,” Stiles says. 

Derek expected the yelling to come immediately. He’s not sure he wants to witness Stiles build up to it. He brushes his hands together. Dust plumes into the air before him. Stiles looks at the floor, glances back up at Derek, but doesn’t comment on it. 

“You’re a gigantic dickhead,” Stiles continues. He points emphatically. “Nice scheme you had there, buddy. Very _10 Things I Hate About You_. I look forward to the big musical number.”

“I’m not in the mood for your dramatics, okay? If you can’t tell, I’m busy. So go ahead and punch me, let your anger out quickly, because I have real problems to deal with and I’m not gonna apologize for doing something I thought could strengthen my pack.”

“I’m not gonna punch you. I almost broke my hand last time. I’m not an idiot. Unlike you. You know what's really fucked up? One thing that makes me angry is the fact you didn't trust me. It wasn't 'appeal to Stiles' logic and reason', it was 'appeal to the teenager's dick.' Not only immoral, but with 300 times more diminishing and condescension! You're a douche."

Derek studies the floorboards and takes a deep, hulking breath. Stiles is right, there’s nothing he can say. He tries to blot out everything except the blood rushing through his veins, so he doesn’t realize Stiles has stepped closer until Stiles’ foot scuffs, an arm’s length away.

“But even more sick and twisted, I’m angriest because your plan backfired. What we have? This thing between us? It’s real. It isn’t simple, but it’s _there_. And now you’re trying to run away from it by telling Boyd to reveal the version of the truth you’re most comfortable with. You think I’ll let you go that easily.”

Derek’s head snaps up. The musty air of the room is thick in his throat as he stares at Stiles. Stiles, who is looking at him with a combination of anger and affection and _no_ , that isn’t what was supposed to happen, how is this possible? Derek fights the urge to flee. How is he ever going to do the honorable thing in leaving Stiles alone?

“It was all a lie, Stiles. I was acting. Like you said, appealing to the teenager’s dick. It was _easy_ to manipulate you. All it took was a smile and a compliment.”

A shadow crosses Stiles’ face and Derek thinks he’s succeeded, but then Stiles comes back with, “I’ve seen you acting and you suck.”

Derek crosses his arm against his chest, hardens his expression. “Have you looked at yourself lately? You think that I could ever want you? A scrawny, maladjusted, hyperactive kid with elastic features and a mouth that won’t shut?”

“I think if you had a choice, you probably wouldn’t want me, however the heart is a fickle beast that says ‘screw it’ to reasoning and consequences.”

Derek wants to tell Stiles he’s wrong, that it’s more than that, that Stiles deserves to believe that someone could want him because he’s brilliant in all of these complex little ways that are difficult to pinpoint, that he’s far better than Derek. It would defeat him, but he wants to.

“You’re just that magical? You defy all logic and taste?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a regular Disney princess. The Belle of the ball. One look into my soulful eyes, of course you fell for me.”

“I’m not the hero come to rescue you from your mundane life, Sleeping Beauty.”

“True. But you are ridiculous,” Stiles scoffs. His voice rises comically. “You can’t even get a single movie reference right.” He steps closer still, haltingly, eyes not leaving Derek’s face. “I don’t think of you as a hero. I don’t think of you as a villain. And it’s a long, long time since I’ve thought of you as a monster.”

Derek sucks in a deep breath, tries another tack. “No, you just think I’m good to look at, fun to touch.”

“Yeah, _of course_ I think you’re hot, look at you. And you cannot tell me you didn’t have fun touching me back,” Stiles says with a flail. “But if you think that’s all I like about you, you’re woefully mistaken.”

“Please, Stiles, what else could you possibly like?” Derek asks, and he means to be cutting, and cruel --- a sad indictment of Stiles’ maturity. 

But he can hear it doesn’t sound any of those things. It’s almost plaintive. Because he wants to believe it. He wants, desperately, for it to be true. That Stiles likes him, who he really is. He doesn’t deserve it, hasn’t done anything worth Stiles’ consideration. But he wants it all the same. 

Stiles picks up on the tone, grapples for Derek’s hand and lays it over his heart. Stiles’ heart is pounding, quick, but steady. Derek thinks about pulling his hand away, but his body is a traitor and his mind is pathetically weak. 

“I like your sneaky wit, and the way you can and will out-sass me given the circumstance. That when we talk, when we actually talk, I understand you and I know you understand me. I like that we don’t even need words all the time, that we can communicate through a single look. I enjoy the silences between us and I’ve always hated silence, always felt like it needs to be filled.

“I like that you stay and you try and you fight against all odds even when lesser people would have given up and run away months ago. And how you’re a good person, not even that deep down, just completely incapable of planning effectively or sharing why you do the things you do.” 

Stiles rubs his thumb against the back of Derek’s hand and his eyes soften. “I like that I can trust you, that I do trust you --- you’ll do the right thing in the end, I know you will, every time. I like you, Derek, even the things that infuriate me, because it’s always challenging, and I thrive on that. So tell me, you heard my heart, was a word of that a lie?”

“No,” Derek says, bitten off, choked. “You think it’s true.”

“ _I_ think… oh my God,” Stiles mutters. He pushes forward and wraps his arms around Derek, holds him tight. Derek remains stationary, refusing to curl his arms around Stiles and never let go. His voice sounds small when he speaks next, right into Derek’s ear. “Why won’t you trust me?”

“I can’t trust anyone,” Derek answers after a beat. “Not even myself.”

Stiles drops his arms, steps back, walks to the other side of the room.

“Have it your way. Be tragic and misunderstood in the safety of your own isolation.” He stops in what used to be a doorway. “Or, you know, you could be less cowardly and take a chance, but I’m not gonna push you.” He turns, looks back at Derek again, his eyes filled with an emotion Derek can’t name. “If you do visit the Wizard and he grants you your wish for courage, come and find me? I can’t promise forever, but I’ll wait for you.“

Derek watches him leave.


	15. Chapter 15

Getting on with life isn’t hard. He’s always had skills in avoidance. His dad asks him once or twice if he’s okay, and doesn’t look all that convinced with his answer, but the truth is, he is. He’s done everything he can do and the rest is up to Derek. He was single before, he can continue to be single. They have a lot they need to discuss, anyway, and he can understand not wanting to rush that. 

He misses Derek, particularly in those moments when Isaac mentions him inadvertently, or a perfect tango track comes up on his playlist. He thinks about the conversations they’ve had and the ones they’ve neglected. Remembers what it’s like to sway in his arms. He asks Erica about him sometimes and she tells him he’s become even more withdrawn, which worries him, but he promised he wouldn’t push and he’s going to keep to that. Whatever demons plague Derek, they’re his to battle until such time he asks for help. 

Scott tells Stiles about dreams he’s been having regarding Peter and one day they’re all summoned to the Hale house, along with Dr Deaton. That explains the chalk symbol Derek was drawing. He hadn’t been able to find it online and his favorite, most useful book at the library had mysteriously disappeared. Derek doesn’t look at him once the time he’s there, but Dr Deaton asks him to help perform an anti-resurrection ritual, explaining that he’s the necessary spark. He doesn’t know what that means, but he does as asked, sprinkling mountain ash and wolfsbane over the floorboards in carefully timed bursts. 

Stiles is pissed that Scott didn’t tell him about Peter and it causes an argument that lasts for the entirety of two hours, until they hug it out.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Stiles,” Scott says mid-hug. 

“I know. But omitting the truth can still hurt, Scott. What if Peter were capable of possessing you or something equally as disturbing and I didn’t know?”

“That’s why I went to Derek.”

“Which, luckily in this case, appears to have worked. I hope. But next time, please, just tell me? I’m really sick of being left out of the loop.”

Scott must hear something in his voice, because the hug tightens. “Okay,” he says. “But you have to promise me you won’t deliberately run into dangerous situations.”

“I promise that the next time I run into a dangerous situation it’ll be completely accidental,” Stiles says, patting Scott’s back. “You’re an awesome hugger, but now we need to stop. My automatic boner’s starting to engage.”

Scott nuzzles closer for a second before he steps away, wrinkling his nose. “You are the literal worst.”

“Not the figurative worst?”

“That too.”

Stiles keeps practicing lacrosse, enlisting help from Scott, Isaac and Boyd. Danny even offers to act as goalie. Jackson, naturally, jeers from the sidelines. The sessions they have help build Stiles in all areas of his game. He uses his increased balance to sidestep deftly, his improved aim to pass and catch. It’s good in a way it never used to be --- the moves he’s always imagined actually get translated to his limbs and even though he can’t single-handedly beat three werewolves and an accomplished lacrosse player, he doesn’t do badly at all. Even Danny compliments him on his play, and Danny’s a known perfectionist. 

“You still suck, Stilinski,” Jackson calls at the last practice before try-outs, grinning sunnily. 

“You wish, Whittemore,” Stiles returns. “Why don’t we have a friendly little competition? The winner being whoever scores the most goals within three minutes?”

“What would be the prize?”

For a second, Stiles can’t think. There’s no way he’s swapping cars with Jackson, he’d hate to think what the maniac would do to his Jeep. He doesn’t need him to do any of his homework and he wouldn’t trust him with it anyway. He doesn’t have the cash to make any kind of monetary wager. 

“The winner will have the satisfaction of a job well done, the loser will have to clean the winner’s lacrosse kit right up until Summer,” Stiles says. 

He doesn’t expect Jackson to go for it, because it’s one of the weakest arrangements he’s concocted, but Jackson has a lot of faith in his superiority, because he takes Isaac’s stick and faces off against him. 

“Prepare to lose,” he says, eyes narrowing. 

“You’re so subtle,” Stiles replies. “Totally nuanced. Anyone would think you have a personality beyond asshole jock. It fills me with never ending wonder.”

“Shut up and play.”

It helps to focus on things like this, to keep up with lifelong held routines and animosities. Stiles sees it as the ultimate test before the try-out. Even if he doesn’t win against Jackson, having the confidence to take him on is a victory in itself. 

They hash out the rules. There’s no contact, anyone who causes a diversion during the other person’s turn is disqualified and has to default to the loser’s task. Boyd is going to act as a defender. Scott’s in goal and Danny’s got the timer for Jackson, vice versa for Stiles. Isaac is the adjudicator and any misconduct will be brought to a court of Lydia, Allison and Erica, regardless of whether they want it to be or not. 

Jackson goes first. This suits Stiles because then he can see how many goals he has to beat and he’s always best with a set target in place. Jackson’s impressive, as usual. He’s got a knack for getting around Boyd and while Scott brings his A game, Jackson scores 7 goals against him in the time allotted. He’s smug when he finishes, but that’s what will make this so much sweeter. 

Stiles readies himself mentally and physically. He thinks of it like a dance. He needs to have control of his body and his movements, but he also needs enough freedom for creativity. He has to be light on his feet, swift, but he can do that, he’s been doing so well. The stick is the perfect weight in his hand, his feet grip the grass --- when Scott calls for him to start he feigns right but runs left, dodging Boyd with a one-two rhythm. He goes for the goal, doesn’t stop to see if he made it, he’s getting back into position. Isaac yells out ‘one’ at any rate. 

He isn’t so successful with the next ball, or the next, but he has a run of three goals soon after. Sweat’s beading on his forehead and his wrist’s still getting used to his new way of throwing and catching, but he loves the edge of a burn in his lungs. Boyd is increasingly able to anticipate his moves so he changes it up, rolling to the ground. It isn’t against the rules they laid down and he’s going to use all the tricks in his arsenal. 

When Scott calls time he’s scored ten wonderful goals, each as beloved to him as the other. Danny wraps a sweaty arm around him for a second as congratulations and Jackson’s scowl is a hilarious exaggeration. Stiles pulls off his jersey and tosses it in Jackson's face. 

“I expect my kit perfectly laundered every week, no exceptions.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Jackson, don’t you know how harmful negative self-talk is? You really need to get out of bad habits.”

It doesn’t surprise anyone but Finstock when Stiles secures a place in first line for the duration of the season. His dad is insanely proud and goes to every game, pulling favors left, right and center to ensure he’s available. The team doesn’t win the first match he plays, but they do win the second, and Stiles dances around the field for ten minutes, gaining many speculative looks from students who’ve never talked to him before.

*

Derek gets out of the habit of talking. He was like this after the fire. Laura was constantly coaxing him to talk about his problems and open up to her, but he couldn’t do it. Words had been his downfall and they’d betray him further if Laura ever found out the whole truth. He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t lose the one person in the world that cared about him. He bottled his emotions up and left them to compound and fester. 

For the most part, the betas leave him alone. Sometimes Isaac asks him to meditate with him and Derek does, because he hopes it might help. Other times, Erica tries to bring him out of his shell. He’s surprised when Boyd comes up to him one day and hands him a card. It’s simple, on thick stock. 

“What’s this?”

“My mom went to see him, after she had a miscarriage,” Boyd says, giving Derek a measured gaze. “A session a week, for as long as she needed. He’s good. Doesn’t patronize, doesn’t ask questions you can’t answer. You should think about it.”

Scott’s probably the most surprising, though. Even after the anti-resurrection ritual is completed, he keeps coming around to the depot. Most of the time, Derek wishes he wouldn’t, because he smells like Stiles and that causes pain to lance through him like acid, but he stays out of Derek’s way and goes through combat and defensive maneuvers with the betas. They enjoy him being there, they’re calmer than when around Derek alone, and Derek hates it.

On one especially bad day, wherein the sound of Scott’s laughter is too much, he confronts him, already half-way shifted, hackles raised. “What are you doing here?”

Scott shrugs. “The pack needs me.”

Derek bares his teeth. “Why don’t you just slit my throat open now? Take what you want?”

“I’m including you in the pack, dumbass,” Scott says with a roll of his eyes. “You wanted me, Derek. Here I am.”

“To mock me.”

“Maybe a little,” Scott says, but he’s lying, his heart skips, and he doesn’t think it’s because Scott’s there to mock him a lot. Derek listens closer, studies his posture. It’s difficult to figure out his true intentions. 

“Does it give you pleasure, seeing me like this? Is this your form of revenge?”

“Dude, you, like, engineered this misery you’re in. It’s only right you should suffer for a while.”

“A while? Not forever?” Derek bites out. 

Scott levels him with a stare. “That depends on you, doesn’t it?”

Erica puts a hand to the small of Derek’s back and leads him away. He lets her because he’s exhausted and defeated.

Derek thinks about Boyd’s card, brings it out at night and stares at it, tracing over the numbers and letters. He thinks about the fact he’s been living with this pain for almost a decade. Thinks about being in love with someone, yet still feeling incapable of love. 

He isn’t equipped to deal with his life as it currently stands. He doesn’t know how to gather his strength around him. He’s slowly but surely giving up and he can’t, _he can’t_ , he’s survived this long, he has to keep going. Stiles said he knew he would do the right thing in the end, but Derek isn’t positive he knows what the right thing is anymore. Part of him wants to go to Stiles and leech his power, use him to prop him up and help him ignore the world. 

But he’s not going to, because that part of him is the same one that listened to Peter, that always wants the easy solution and consumes itself in guilt but never seeks to rectify its mistakes. It’s the part that speaks to him at night and tells him he’s worthless, then continues to encourage him to perform worthless acts. It’s the one that carries him to the house and screams, _”Look what you’ve done.”_

*

Stiles is practicing scoring goals when Derek finds him. The final game of the season is on in the next week. Isaac and Boyd had asked him to go, but he’d wavered on answering. He hadn’t known what he was going to be doing. Didn’t know until this morning that he was finally going to talk to Stiles when he realized that not talking about his problems is what has led to more problems. Stiles isn’t in his padding, but is in lacrosse shorts. He’s more tanned than when Derek last saw him, is wearing a tighter shirt than usual, muscles flexing under the shift of material. He looks healthy, which eases the knot in Derek’s abdomen that’s been there for months. Derek steps forward without thinking about it, feet moving before his brain can catch up.

“Derek,” Stiles calls, glancing over his shoulder. “Still attempting to get the gold medal for creeping, I see.”

“You shouldn’t wait for me,” Derek says in response. He hadn’t meant to, it had been his intention to talk to Stiles in a calm and rational manner, but the affection in Stiles’ eyes has him cutting to the chase. “I don’t want you to wait for me. You’ll be waiting a long time, Stiles, and that isn’t fair.”

Stiles nods toward the bleachers. “Wanna talk?”

Derek nods back. He walks over, sits awkwardly on the bench. His leather creaks as he puts his hands in his pockets and even though it’s too hot for the jacket, he wallows in the comfort it provides. Stiles sits next to him, holding onto his lacrosse stick. He twists it in his hands a couple of times, seems to be waiting for Derek to speak.

“I can’t be with you the way we both want me to be,” Derek says eventually, glancing at Stiles, unsure of his reaction. He still can’t be sure what it is. Stiles is concentrating on his hands, lower lip snagged in his teeth. “I need time to figure out what the fuck I’m doing. I thought it would be a good decision to seduce a sixteen year old. It’s kind of obvious I’m a work in progress.”

Stiles snorts softly, scrubs a hand over his head. “My age isn’t that important.”

“It is, though. You’re more mature than I was at your age. In some ways you’re more mature than I am now. But you’re still young. The fact remains, I set out to deceive you because of your youth, knowing you’d be at a disadvantage. I didn’t respect you and you deserve respect, Stiles. You’re strong, you’re smart, you work hard for the benefit of others. I abused that. All of that.”

Stiles considers this, stares at Derek. “It was a dick move,” he says. “In a long line of dick moves you’ve pulled.”

Derek looks out toward the field again. Stiles’ gaze is a little too penetrating. “Glad we agree.”

“But do you regret it?”

“You know I do. But just because I regret it, just because I care for you, that doesn’t mean I’m absolved of the injustice of my actions.”

“No,” Stiles says, carefully. He shrugs a shoulder. It’s obvious he’s attempting to be casual, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. His fingers work frenetically at the stick in his hands and there’s a tick in his jaw. That doesn’t stop him from leaning in, playful. “You could make it up to me.”

“And I intend to, just not how you’re imagining right now.”

“Ugh, werewolves. I hate that you can read my mind.”

Derek tries not to smile at the joke, fails. He clenches his fists tighter in his pockets and breathes deep. His lungs feel leaden in his chest. Stiles asked him to trust him and it’s taken a while to realize he already does. He has to be honest, no matter how painful it is. He needs to explain and justify himself, even though there’s nothing that will excuse what he did. 

“I wanna tell you a story about a boy,” Derek continues. “He was sixteen, fit, people said he was good looking in a lanky kind of way. He played on the lacrosse team and he did well in his studies. He didn’t have a lot of close friends, but that didn’t usually bother him, he was relatively content with his life. Sometimes he’d get lonely, but everyone gets lonely. 

“And then one day an adult in their twenties realized that this boy had something they wanted. They were determined that they were gonna do whatever it took to achieve their goal. So they seduced the boy, played with his affections, got him to trust them. He was young and untested, he thought it was love. He deserved love, why couldn’t this be it? He gave them their every desire.

“His house burned down within a week, almost his entire family inside. The only two who weren’t home were the sixteen year old and his sister, who were running late due to lacrosse practice and math tutoring. The adult was outside the house when the siblings arrived, watching the flames flicker, and the boy realized that she must be the culprit. No one else knew how to get into the basement where the fire had started. No one else knew the boy came from a family of werewolves. It didn’t make any sense to him. He thought she loved him. She laughed in his face when he confronted her, told him how _easy_ he’d been to manipulate.

“And the boy grew up, hating his idiocy, blaming himself for all that had occurred. He forgot that most people don’t look at others as something to be used and nothing more. He forgot that people can be good and do the right thing. He forgot, and to be honest, he didn’t care, his misery was all that was important to him.”

“Kate,” Stiles whispers. There’s a clicking sound and then, “Oh my God, I can’t begin to imagine ---” 

Derek scrubs a hand over his face, shrugs his coat tighter. He glances at Stiles, but Stiles is looking in the opposite direction. His lungs feel lighter now, his chest not as constricted. He hadn’t even realized he’d felt like he’d been carrying a physical burden all this time. 

“You’re not like her,” Stiles says, slowly. 

“I am, though, in all the ways that count.”

Stiles knocks into him. His eyes are red-rimmed and his skin’s pale enough it’s almost translucent. “You weren’t going to kill anyone, Derek, there’s a difference.”

“There isn’t a big enough difference. I want there to be. I want to be a better person. I need to work through my issues, so I’ve been going to a therapist. Obviously, there are lots of details I can’t discuss, but I find my way around it most sessions. I can’t keep up this level of destruction. Eventually, something or someone’s gonna break.”

Stiles pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re getting braver,” he says. “I’m sorry, that sounds condescending as fuck. But. I’m proud of you.”

The flush of self-satisfaction Derek feels at that must surely be against his self-imposed rules. “If anyone should be sorry for anything, it’s me. And I am. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I accept your apology,” Stiles says, fiddling with the net of his lacrosse stick. 

They settle into a moment of companionable silence. Derek counts Stiles’ heartbeats. It feels good to be alongside him again, to have everything out in the open. He wishes he could find the words to tell Stiles how much he means to him, how grateful he is for his forgiveness. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but this is a concession he’s going to give himself. 

“You understand, don’t you?” Derek asks, hating how fragile he sounds. 

“Yeah. You’re right.” Derek can smell the edge of disappointment in Stiles’ scent, but it isn’t cloying and thick like he thought it would be. “We can’t be together. Not romantically, not sexually. Not yet.” 

“What we have right now, it isn’t the basis for a longstanding relationship. But I’d like that. One day. With you.” Derek chances a glance at Stiles’ profile, at the upturn of his nose, the constellation of his beauty marks. He’s missed his face. “But like I said before, don’t wait. You deserve someone who can give you everything you need. Someone who recognizes how brilliant you are and appreciates it the way it should be appreciated. If we’re supposed to be together, we will be, after I learn how to be human again.”

“Erica said you’re the most human person she knows.”

Derek considers that, frowns. “Maybe I need to learn to be less human, then.”

“What do you want to happen between us?”

“Well, I like spending time with you and you seem to like spending time with me, so why don’t we do that occasionally? Spend time. Together. You think we could be friends?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to at least try.”

Stiles turns to face him, quirks an eyebrow. He offers his closed fist. Derek looks at it for a second, then pulls his own fist out of his pocket and meets it, their knuckles brushing gently. 

“Friends,” Stiles says, decisively. 

“Thank you,” Derek replies, voice soft. “I could use a friend like you. Someone who pushes me to be patient, consider all the options, revise and improve.”

Stiles grins, brighter than Derek could ever expect after everything they’ve been through. “You know there’s, like, no way of getting rid of me now, right?”

Derek leans against him for a second. “I’m counting on it.”


	16. Epilogue - 4 Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change of rating from Mature to Explicit. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who’s followed this story and commented and/or clicked kudos, it’s really meant a lot to me. ♥ I’m so sorry it took so long to get here, but this is it, this is the end.

Stiles wonders if it’s possible to vibrate out of his skin. He hasn’t been home in months and this is the first summer in three years he’s going to spend the whole of his break in Beacon Hills. While he’d loved his internship with Reuters, and backpacking around Europe, and his awesome short-term exchange trip to Australia, he’s totally ready for chilling with his family. 

He’s more than ready for spending time with Derek. There have been hints in their chats over the past couple of months that Derek is at a place where he thinks he could cope with taking the next step in their relationship. His spies all tell him Derek’s been brooding less and the project of rebuilding the Hale house has resulted in a lot of cathartic tearing down of barriers to his well being. These are all encouraging signs. He tries not to get too excited. Mostly fails.

Derek told him not to wait and in most ways he didn’t. Stiles has had one night stands, has dated, had a girlfriend for ten months and wasn’t the cause of the break-up (Catherine went to France when he went to Australia and fell in love with a local boy. They’re already married with a baby on the way.) He hasn’t really pined --- at least, not in the same obsessive way he did for Lydia. But he hasn’t stopped caring for Derek. 

Scott used to ask him how he forgave Derek so easily, and Stiles can’t say, “because you forgave me.” Now that he’s older, he thinks he probably was too quick to cast aside Derek’s actions in the name of young love, but he’s glad he did anyway. They’d needed one another when the Alpha pack had rolled into town. Had spent countless nights together researching and conducting surveillance, keeping watch over the pack. To this day, Stiles sometimes doesn’t know how they’re all still alive. 

And the cruel, twisted part of him that took delight in taking revenge when Scott kissed Lydia also likes when Derek defers to him out of guilt. He’s just --- he’s really not perfect. Sometimes, he listens to Derek’s recounts of his therapy with a little more than friendly interest. Derek’s said more than once that Stiles has made him want to be a better person and Stiles has never known how to say he feels the same about Derek.

Stiles hates flying, especially with this buzzing sensation tingling all over his body, but he tried to drive his first summer and scenic road trips cross-country from New York to California are nine thousand times worse than movies would have you believe, especially if you go part of the way with a former crush and her boyfriend. He misses his Jeep but she’s in a better place now. Somewhere off Route 66. He wishes Jackson’s body were somewhere off Route 66 too. In a deep, deep grave. When it comes to dysfunctional relationships that tread the fine line between high self-regard and self-harm, Lydia is ahead by _miles_. Or maybe Jackson is. It’s so hard to tell. 

Anyway, he hates flying, but it means he’ll be home soon. It takes a lot of willpower not to jump about in his seat and if he wasn’t near the window he knows his claustrophobia would kick in, but he pulls out his copy of the Argent bestiary entries Lydia recently managed to translate from archaic Latin and settles in for the journey.

*

The pack gather at the house to welcome everyone back from college for the summer, even though most of the pack are close enough that they spend weekends in Beacon Hills. Stiles’ dad has to work, but he drops in early in the evening’s proceedings, bringing the eternally welcome gift of cake. He and Derek have gotten into a pattern where they nod at one another if they meet in the grocery store or at the gas station without any kind of scowling involved. It’s a big improvement on what they had before. Scott’s mom sits with Boyd’s parents, drinking wine and being louder than the pack. Jennifer and Benjamin Boyd only found out about their son being a werewolf in the Winter. They’ve taken it surprisingly well. Erica’s parents still don’t have any idea, but Derek wanted to invite them anyway. Erica was the one who vetoed that idea, with rather more force than anyone thought necessary.

The night is one of merriment and catching up. Stiles always saves some anecdotes for when he’s actually in Beacon Hills, enjoying his place of raconteur among the pack. Scott and Allison prepare the food, sickeningly adorable in the kind of way that has the betting pool livening up regarding when they’re going to announce their engagement. Derek’s positive they’re already engaged and have purposely neglected to tell them all. He can’t wait to see the throw-down when Scott has to decide whether he wants to mortally offend Stiles or Isaac more when it comes to his choice of best man. He’s offered his services, as a joke, and was a little disturbed by how seriously Scott seemed to consider that a suitable alternative. Then again, he’s not sure he’d want to hear the endless streams of outrage Stiles would engage in were Scott to ask if it were all right if he had two best men, nor Isaac’s epic sulk if he only went with Stiles.

After dinner, Derek offers Stiles a tour of the house. The others all got one earlier in the day and have seen the place in different states of the construction anyway. The last time Stiles was in Beacon Hills it was a shell and a few concept pictures, but now it’s close to perfect. It’s bright, airy, full of color. In the library, Derek’s second-favorite room, there’s a wall filled with photographs in different sized frames, and a mantel displaying a collection of items each pack member has contributed to, with objects that range from cute, such as the wolf cuddly toy Scott bought when they went to a conservation park as a day trip, to poignant, such as Erica’s grandma’s ring. They view everything in companionable silence, only exchanging a couple of comments. Stiles turns to congratulate him once they’re back out on the patio near the pack, but Derek cuts him off before he can sit again. 

“Can I show you my favorite part?” Derek asks, fingers tapping lightly against Stiles’ forearm. “In the effort of full disclosure I should tell you I have a secondary ulterior motive in wanting to kiss you when we’re there.”

“I’d like that,” Stiles says, pulse increasing and eyes sparkling. “All of that. This is me enthusiastically consenting to that and more.”

“We’re going to go check out the garden,” Derek says, not even bothering to raise his voice. The betas have all been listening in anyway, none of them are subtle. 

Boyd stares at them unimpressed. Derek’s heard more than one, ‘you should have cut ties completely’-style remark from him over the years, so he’s surprised when Boyd mutters, “oh my God, finally.” 

Derek rubs his head as they walk past because it pisses him off. Derek’s grown a lot, but this is something fixed, innate. He will always enjoy engaging in a level of antagonizing others. He’s been told that’s acceptable and judging by the fact Stiles _also_ rubs Boyd’s head, he’s going to assume it’s at least normal, whatever the definition of normal might be. 

Scott brushes his fingers against Stiles’ as they saunter by him, curling his arm up and over Allison’s head. He rarely glares at Derek anymore, they’ve saved one another’s lives too many times, and been researching the rituals required for Scott to become an Alpha in his own right. They’re not best friends, but they’ve come far. Scott seems to view Derek as an intensely annoying older brother most of the time. But there’s the shadow of a warning in his gaze right now. His message is deafening; _”hurt Stiles and I will end you.”_ Derek doesn’t know how to convey, _”trust me, I’ll help.”_

They set off on the winding road to the garden. It’s separate from the porch and entertaining area near the house, a place created mostly for solitude. 

Derek enjoys talking about the different features in the garden as they walk through. There’s an herb patch filled with herbs that have medicinal properties that Stiles and Scott researched together, a water fountain that produces a relaxing gurgle that echoes across to the bench nearby. There’s a rocky outcrop that was going to be an actual rockery, until Erica insisted they leave it as is so she could climb on top and howl during the full moon. Isaac requested a stretch of sand, but it’s more of a child’s sandbox than something that belongs in a zen garden. Boyd’s unique addition is specially laid paving and an over sized chess set. Stiles teasingly calls it the most stereotyped garden of all gardens, but it’s peaceful and energizing; the perfect retreat for meditation. It’s where Derek goes if he can’t be gone from the house long enough for a run. 

“It looks incredible in person,” Stiles says. They’d sent something like seventy-two pictures when they’d finished. Stiles had complained about his inbox being flooded. “And I was right, wasn’t I? It works having it set away from the house.”

“You’re always right,” Derek replies. “As you make a point of telling everyone any chance you get.”

Stiles flops onto the closest bench, making grabby hands toward Derek. Derek sits next to him, listening to the slight uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat. They’re pressed close, shoulder to shoulder. He’s missed this. 

“You smiled earlier,” Stiles says in a falsely casual tone. “My sources say you’ve been doing that a lot more lately.”

It’s true. When bad things happen he finds it a lot easier now not to internalize them and blame himself. He actually hasn’t done anything self-destructive in a long time. He controls his anger more successfully and it’s no longer his anchor. His pack is his anchor instead and that works because there’s always someone’s heartbeat he can tune into, always a moment he can recall that will give him the strength to access his powers as necessary as opposed to by default. He always thought he had control before, and maybe he did, but it was the kind that came with punishment and now it comes with reward.

“I’ve had more to smile about lately,” Derek counters. “A purpose that doesn’t involve blood and guts, a place I feel safe, a supportive pack, and the knowledge that you’d be here soon. It feels good.”

Stiles gives him the sweetest smile in return and Derek leans in, cradles his jaw, softly starts the kiss he’s been anticipating since he knew Stiles would be in Beacon Hills over the summer. He licks against the seam of Stiles’ lips, can’t help but hum when Stiles opens up for him and then licks into his mouth, nudging and shifting until there’s no space between them. Stiles angles his head until he can deepen the kiss, sucking Derek’s tongue. It isn’t frantic like their first kiss was, or their last. It doesn’t feel like a moment snatched within a second of calm. Stiles drags both of his hands up Derek’s back and into his hair, holds him tight. He kisses him with indulgent determination, like there’s nothing else he’d rather do than be with Derek, here, like this. It makes Derek shudder, has his heart pumping harder against his ribcage. 

When he finally eases away he’s transfixed by Stiles’ expression. It’s a combination of joyful and needy that he’s only seen once in real life before, and been haunted by thousands of times in his imagination.

“I know you told me not to, but I’ve totally been waiting four years for that to happen again.”

“You kissed me last year,” Derek reminds Stiles gently. He doesn’t mention the extenuating circumstances, because he knows Stiles will.

As if on cue, Stiles says, “yeah, but you didn’t kiss me back. I’d thought you were _dead_. The relief had been fucking palpable. I could’ve wrapped my hands around it and put it on a shelf. I have a mental picture of it sitting alongside my little league trophies, that’s how strong my relief was.”

“I had been dying,” Derek says with a shrug. He’s been working on being assertive without being domineering. He isn’t completely successful yet. He mostly comes across as glib.

Stiles looks suitably chastened for a second, rolling his lips inward before pouting. “All the more reason you should have kissed me.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“But you are now.” It isn’t a question, it’s a very leading statement. Stiles has acquired all of his father’s interrogation skills.

Stiles can’t hear his heartbeat, or sense his aura, or smell deceit, but Stiles is brilliant at reading him. He picks up on every micro-hesitation, each evasive maneuver, all of Derek’s deflections. And Derek hates lying to him, will avoid it at all costs. It always makes a pulse of shame wind up his spine and settle on his shoulders, making him feel he’s carrying his issues around for all the world to see. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Derek says, worrying his fingernails. “I don’t know if I ever will be. But sometimes I think I hide behind my fear and let it dictate my life because it’s convenient.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Stiles returns, tucking himself under Derek’s arm with an artful wriggle and clasping his hand over his shoulder. “Look, I know what I want, and that’s to kiss and touch you to my heart’s content. I would be fine with that going at a glacial pace, but you should know that it’s on my list of life goals. It’s not a pipe dream I’ve given up on in the face of adulthood.”

“Is this you making your intentions toward me clear?” 

“Pretty much.” Stiles sighs. He tilts his head to look up at Derek through his lashes. He’s mesmerizing like this, with the moonlight casting shadows across his cheeks, lips parted as if in wait. “Whatever you decide, Derek. I’ll support you.”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand softly. “I don’t feel comfortable having that much power over you. I feel like you shouldn’t always be having to accommodate me.”

“That’s kind of how relationships work. You accommodate me in lots of ways too. It’s a mutually inclusive arrangement. How many times have you accepted that I’m gonna go talk to Deaton regardless of repeated instructions not to? How frequently do I piss you off by butt-dialing you during lectures? You understand when I need a day or two alone because of my mom. And I know you detested the clothes I started wearing when I first began College; you’d always look at them like you wanted to tear them off me, and not in the good way --- which, there’s nothing wrong with thrift shop purchases, dude, especially when you have no cash.”

“Mmm,” Derek replies, non-committal. 

He really had _hated_ Stiles’ attempt at being a hipster, although he’d liked that he’d finally let his hair grow out. He’d thought his new found sense of style had been one more sign that he was drifting away, that he didn’t see Derek as part of his future. He hadn’t said anything about it, more the opposite. He’d stopped texting Stiles, avoided pack Skype meetings, until Stiles had turned up out of the blue one weekend to find out what was up. It hadn’t taken Stiles long to disabuse him of the notion that he didn’t want Derek in his life anymore, all he’d needed was space to pace and flail about and every curse word known in the English language. Derek remembers it well. 

“Anyway, it’s not that you have power over me, so much as I let you borrow some of my power,” Stiles continues as if he hadn’t interjected. “Like a jump start for a car battery, or an unsecured loan, or some other appropriate and witty analogy. It’s a conscious choice that I’ve made to stand by you.”

That eases some of the tension Derek’s been holding. He presses his lips to Stiles’ forehead, whispers into his hair. “I just don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“I know. Me neither. But, okay, so, think of us like this house.”

“This isn’t a film reference, is it?” Derek asks, quickly. He’s gotten used to noticing when something’s a reference, but isn’t notably better at saying where they’re from.

“It may be. It could also be from a song.”

“Is it going to be about this house initially having shaky, broken beginnings, but now it has a strong foundation, and solid walls, and with plenty of time and affection devoted to it, instead of being merely a house, it’s a home?”

Stiles snorts. “Got it in one. Wow, I’ve trained you well.” He rubs his head against Derek’s shoulder like he’s settling in for a nap. “I know it’s cliché, trite, even, but sometimes these kinds of things are worn and used for a reason. We’re structurally sound, Derek, have been for a while.”

“Can I have this dance?” Derek asks, slipping out from Stiles’ sprawl and standing. “For old time’s sake.” 

He holds out his hand, gives a mock-bow. The last time he and Stiles danced together had been the party Erica had held in place of the prom that none of the pack had gotten to go to because of Gerard Argent. They’d performed a demonstration tango to applause and frankly undignified catcalls. Stiles had been suspiciously good and admitted that he’d contributed to his extracurricular activities requirement for College applications by volunteering at the retirement village. They’d just so happened to have tango classes every Thursday. 

It feels revelatory to have Stiles in his arms again, but this time without an audience. With increased skill and practice, he’s a sinuous line against Derek, perfectly fluid and graceful in a way he still isn’t when he walks. Stiles follows his lead for the first few minutes, outright giggling when Derek dips him. He rubs their cheeks together when Derek pulls him back up, as if he’s wanted to do it all evening.

His eyes crinkle as he adopts a nervous tone. “Mr Hale, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?”

It’s the kind of casual remark Stiles makes frequently, as if continually driving home the point he forgives Derek for past transgressions. It’s more welcome than Stiles will ever know. 

“No. I learned my lesson there. But I wouldn’t be averse to you seducing me.”

Stiles gives him a small, mischievous smile, and Derek thinks this may have been the bravest thing he’s ever said. He isn’t expecting it when Stiles starts to take the lead in the tango, adjusting their positions with a raise of his eyebrow, but it works so much better than he could have imagined. He finds himself muttering “slow, slow, quick, quick, slow” just to distract himself from how dancing with Stiles again uncoils the little ball of want he’s quashed for years. Stiles’ palm is firm and warm in the dip of his lower back, his strides confident and forceful. 

And Derek knows he’s in capable hands.

*

Derek makes the most amazing sounds as Stiles bites his earlobe and kisses his neck, all stuttering and low. His fingers flutter at Stiles’ hips and one of his legs kicks out. There’s a tremor in Stiles’ hand as he brushes it over Derek’s naked chest and he wishes breathing were optional. There’s a reason this has always been his go-to fantasy. He loves having Derek beneath him, splayed out and pliant, pretending he couldn’t buck Stiles off from straddling him whensoever he chose. 

The jeans are an inconvenience, but Stiles hadn’t actually been planning on jumping Derek when he came in with his morning coffee. In Stiles’ defensive, he shouldn’t have been walking around shirtless. The house had air conditioning after all, a feature that had been paramount in Stiles’ explanation to his dad as to why he was staying there. ( _”You’re sure it’s not for the sex?”_ his dad had asked. _“We’re not up to that,”_ Stiles had replied. _“I have my own room.”_ ) 

It’s been three weeks and they’ve both been patient and undemanding, working up to longer kisses and extended touching in between a routine of Derek building some chairs and a cabinet and Stiles cross-referencing information from the Argent bestiary. He really didn’t want to rush Derek, but after he got up and kissed him senseless Derek lay on the bed and beckoned him over, so, he doesn’t think he has. He hopes he hasn’t. He’d hate it if Derek’s being so compliant out of a sense of obligation. 

Stiles levers himself up. Derek stares at him with the kind of unyielding desire Stiles has been craving for far too long. “Do you want me to stop? I ask because I’m about _this_ far away from stripping us both naked and having my nasty way with you.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Derek says, stroking his thumb over Stiles’ hipbone. His mouth quirks up in a half-smile, so hot it’s almost painful. “We should definitely continue.”

Stiles doesn’t know how appropriate it would be if he cheered at this juncture --- but when has he ever been appropriate. He climbs off to the side of Derek, pulls down his boxer briefs in as short a time as possible. Derek flips the button on his jeans but then lets Stiles work on his zipper; slowly, slowly, he has a feeling Derek’s going commando. 

Stiles _loves_ sex. He loves getting to explore new bodies and figuring out what turns someone on. He already knows that Derek likes softly tugging on his hair, has a weakness for licking his collarbones. Derek’s eyes go hyper-focused when Stiles whispers his name, or writhes a certain way, or licks his lips. Stiles wonders what else he enjoys, what he can do to have Derek moaning, throaty and rough. 

He tugs Derek’s jeans off his hips, Derek putting all his weight on his shoulders and heels so he can wriggle them over his ass and down his thighs. He was right about him going commando and that is just perfect. Derek’s already half-hard, his cock thick and flushed. Stiles peels the jeans as far down as he can bother, before Derek’s helping, using his feet to get the last few inches off. The jeans get flung in the same direction as his underwear and neither of them care. 

“Get back up here?” Derek asks, gesturing with one hand as he reaches out with the other. 

Stiles narrows his eyes, inspecting. “Not yet. My tongue has an appointment with parts of you I can’t reach if I’m sitting on your legs.”

“Your tongue has an appointment?” Derek echoes, flat.

Stiles bends down and presses his lips tentatively to Derek’s inner thigh before glaring up at him. “I’ve never learned dirty talk, okay? How would you phrase it?”

“Not yet, I wanna lick you all over?” Derek offers, his voice catching in the middle with his amusement. Or maybe it’s not amusement. His fingers are clutching into the sheet, twisting the material out of place. 

And Stiles does lick, just as lingering as he can manage, against Derek’s thigh muscles, up along the crease where his leg meets the trunk of his body, along the taut lines of his abdomen. He’s had many vivid dreams about this body and he’s going to enact them now that he has permission. It’s incredible having this expanse of sweat-slick skin beneath him, reacting so gratifyingly to his touches. Derek tenses and releases with a short huff of breath several times, undulating upwards when Stiles finally wraps his lips around the head of his cock.

When he takes hold of Derek’s cock and licks along the underside, right up the tip, he can’t help but rut against the bed himself. Precome beads along the slit and Stiles captures it, unable to stop a moan that just _vibrates_ between him and Derek. Derek squeezes his eyes shut, tips his head back. Stiles half expects to see his teeth gritted, but he’s mistaken, Derek’s mouth is open wide around a grin. With sunlight streaming through the blinds and casting everything in a warm glow he looks stunning, superlative. Stiles can’t really believe that he’s even real.

Stiles sucks him down again, hollowing out his cheeks. It feels amazing having the weight and thickness of Derek against his tongue. He uses all of the techniques he enjoys when he’s receiving a blowjob and adds in something he was taught in senior year, a little twirl against the head of Derek’s cock that has his thigh muscles tensing. 

Stiles can tell by the way Derek’s now scrabbling in the sheets and involuntarily snapping his hips that he’s edging close and he slides off with a pop. He rubs at the corner of his lips with his thumb; his mouth is so wet.

“How far do you wanna go?” he asks, voice already raspy. 

Derek tilts his head down, looks at him intensely. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like to ride you.”

Derek closes his eyes and Stiles thinks he’s gone too far, pushed too soon. He swallows against his disappointment and starts to draw back, but Derek’s hand strikes out fast and clasps around his wrist. Derek’s eyelashes flutter and then he looks at Stiles, determined.

“I want that,” Derek says, unevenly. “If you want to do that, please. That would be --- good.”

It’s been ages since he’s reduced Derek to monosyllabic sentence construction and he did it through annoyance before. He can’t help but be a little proud. He licks at his bottom lip reflexively, watching as Derek actually shivers in response. And yeah, he’s finding it a little hard to think, his limbs not seeming to coordinate the way he wants them to. He knows he looks ridiculous as he clambers over Derek to retrieve the lube and condoms from the bedside table, and he thumps into Derek’s side when he completes his mission. It’s a miracle he doesn’t seriously harm either of them when he straddles his thighs.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Derek says, with a tone that’s either warning or insecure. Knowing Derek, it’s probably both. “You know what you’re doing?”

Stiles has a feeling his smirk is likely to be insufferably smug. “You’re safe with me.”

An expression flashes across Derek’s face that’s either jealousy or arousal, but Stiles doesn’t concentrate on that so much as he does snicking open the lube, rising up high on his knees, and toying at his hole. He’s done this before, lots of times, but rarely with such a captive audience and not for such a thick looking cock. He works himself open methodically, deeply, Derek’s hands holding his legs tight. 

“I might need some help,” Stiles says, prying at Derek’s hand with his clean fingers. “Think you could manage that?”

Derek’s verbal response is an affirmative grunt. Stiles pours lube over his fingers and stares at his face, spellbound, as Derek moves until his fingers rest next to his own. Derek presses in slowly and carefully, and Stiles just wants to shock him into pushing harder. He rocks forward and back, sighing. It’s good but not enough. 

He’s relaxed now and more than ready, his own cock achingly hard. He wipes his hands as best he can against the sheet and rolls and slicks the condom on Derek with practiced ease. Derek raises up onto his elbows, craning forward as Stiles positions himself above his cock. His face is so serious, so intent, that Stiles wants to laugh at it. But the humor is punched out of him by the sensation of Derek opening him up and all he can manage is a short, choked-off noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. 

Derek, on the other hand, rumbles when Stiles is fully seated on him. He gazes at Stiles as if he’s never seen anything like him before and blinks when Stiles uses all of strength to lift up and then roll down. He adjusts position until he’s only on one elbow so the other hand can grasp Stiles’ hip. That changes the angle, and, oh, okay, that was an amazing decision on Derek’s part because that minor shift makes a huge difference. Now every time Stiles rolls down onto him, Derek’s cock unerringly strokes against his prostate and he doesn’t need to look to know that precome is leaking out of him. It smears against his happy trail and he’d take his hand to his cock, but, fuck, he needs to hold onto his thighs or he’ll topple over.

Stiles has pictured and imagined this moment with concentration bordering on the Rashomon effect. Every conceivable angle and perspective has been applied to how this might go and he’s still never captured this, the slick slide of their bodies together, the lazy way Derek keeps staring at him, the sound of their flesh and their breaths and their exclamations. It’s so much better than his imagination. 

He’s full in the best way, clenching around Derek without meaning to. He starts up a rhythm of ‘slow, slow, quick, quick, slow’, wonders if Derek will notice. 

Derek mumbles, “tight” and then “hot”, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s talking to him, the sound is so muffled. His legs are starting to burn and he can feel sweat dripping down his forehead and into the dip of his lower back. He knows he can’t keep this up forever. But it’s the best sensation in the world, pushing down onto Derek, and he doesn’t think he can ever get enough.

There’s another shift in position, with Derek putting his feet flat against the bed, his knees now bracketing Stiles’ ass. Stiles collapses forward with a startled groan, making Derek laugh. He’d complain, but the sound reverberates between them and words leave him. Seeing Derek so carefree does things to him --- inexplicably warm and fuzzy things. It feels perfectly natural to continue riding Derek in this position, cock sliding against both of their abdomens. And that. That is spectacular.

“I’m close,” he warns, rubbing his nose against Derek’s neck. 

“I’ve been hoping you’d say that,” Derek replies, quiet and breathy. “Come for me, Stiles, go on.”

Those words send him over the edge. He can’t control it. One second he’s close, the next he’s gone, whole body tensing and shuddering. His cock spurts messily all over Derek’s stomach and smears against his own when he can’t hold himself up. His hole spasms around Derek’s cock and Stiles can hear himself chanting a litany of “oh my God” and “Derek”, over and over. He can’t stop.

Stiles knows that Derek has wolfy stamina, but he didn’t think he’d solely been waiting for him, so it’s a surprise when Derek comes with a shocky grunt, whole body stilling. Stiles automatically thinks, _that was me, I did that._. He flops down again, grazing his teeth against Derek’s shoulder, enjoying the hand that slides wetly up the nubs of his spine. It’s a comforting gesture, a companionable one, and it makes Stiles wriggle against Derek before he realizes he’s far too sensitive.

He slides off to the side and doesn’t say anything when Derek cleans them up. He doesn’t know what to say other than “thank you” or “good morning” or some other platitude. 

If Derek notices Stiles’ panic, he doesn’t say anything either, just curls into Stiles’ side and slides his arm under his back. He kisses Stiles’ cheek and nuzzles into his temple, making Stiles want to tease him for being so cuddly. 

“I think you’re the best worst decision I’ve ever made,” Derek says, quietly enough Stiles could have imagined it. 

He twists in Derek’s hold until they’re facing one another, drags his thumb over Derek’s lower lip. His gaze flicks back up to Derek’s eyes. “I love you too.”

*

Things aren’t always easy between them, they don’t suddenly stop making mistakes, but Derek thinks they work well. It’s a relationship that feels hard-won and Derek can’t help but revel in their combined victory. 

The long distance nature of their relationship in their first year together is an inconvenience, but it leads to some interesting Skype calls and sexting. Stiles is creative in ways Derek will never be and it’s a large part of his appeal. Derek continues attending therapy, though he lessens the frequency of his visits. He occupies himself with making furniture that he sells through Boyd’s parents’ shop, as well as taking care of pack business, finding that his days usually feel too short. 

When he and Stiles are together during Stiles’ break, they divide their time equally into hanging out with the pack, sharing various interests (so many movie nights, but Derek’s gotten his revenge by making Stiles hike), and mapping one another’s bodies. It’s good in a way Derek never thought he’d have. He’s happy, and for some reason, his happiness seems to spark Stiles’. They’ve been told they can be annoyingly cute. Erica remains evil like that. 

They don’t rush anything and they never make plans. If there’s one thing Derek knows with certainty, it’s that plans have a tendency to go awry.


End file.
